-      •  :     •-   '•    .  • 


. 

• 


ELLIOTT,  Stephen,  naturalist  b  in  Beaufort 
SO     11  Nov     1771 ;   d.  in  Charleston,  S.  0.,  W 
March  1830.    His  father  settled  in  Beaufort,  where 
ne  purchased  land,  and  married  a  granddaughter 
of  John  Barnwell.     He  was  graduated  at  Yale  m 
1791  devoted  himself  to  the  cultivation  of  his  es 
tate 'and  to  literary  and  scientific  studies   and L  m 
1793  was  elected  to  the  legislature  of  South  Caro 
lina,  of  which  he  continued  to  be  a  member  until 
the  establishment  of  the  Bank  of  the  state  in 1818, 
of  which  he  was  chosen  president.     He  retained 
this  office  till  his  death.    His  leisure  was  devoted 
to  literature  and  science    and   he  cultivated  the 
study  of  botany  with  enthusiasm.    In  1813  he  was 
instrumental  in  founding  the  Literary  and  philo 
sophical  society  of  South  Carolina,  of  which  he 
was  president.     He  lectured  gratuitously  on  his 
favorite  science,  and  was  for  some  time  editor  < 
the  "  Southern  Review."    In  1825  he  aided  in  estab 
lishing  the  Medical  college  of  the  state,  and  was 
elected  professor  of  natural  history  and  botany. 
He  was  the  author  of  "The  Botany  of  South  Caro 
lina  and  Georgia"  (Charleston,   1821-'4),  m  the 
preparation  of  which  he  was  assisted  by  Dr.  James 
McBride,  and  left  several  works  in  manuscript. 
His  collection  in  natural  history  was  one  of  the 


on  5  Nov.,  1861,  was  promoted  major  in  the  regu 
lar  army.  He  afterward  commanded  a  brigade  of 
cavalry  in  the  Army  of  th6  Tennessee,  was  engaged 
at  the  capture  of  Madrid,  brevetted  for  gallantry 
at  the  capture  of  Island  No.  10,  and  again  for  ser 
vices  at  the  siege  of  Corinth,  and  in  a  raid  on  the 
Mississippi  and  Ohio  railroad  in  May,  1862.  He 
was  promoted  to  brigadier-general  of  volunteers  in 
June,  1862,  became  chief  of  cavalry  in  the  Army  of 
Virginia  in  August,  1862,  and  was  wounded  at  the 
second  battle  of  Bull  Run.  He  commanded  the 
Department  of  the  Northwest  in  the  beginning  of 
1863,  was  placed  in  command  of  a  division  in  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac  in  the  summer  of  that  year, 
then  in  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland,  and  was  en 
gaged  in  re-enforcing  Gen.  Burnside,  and  com 
manded  in  the  action  of  Mossy  Creek,  Tenn.  He 
was  subsequently  chief  of  cavalry  in  the  Armv  of 


(7 

JkCt^tA' 


ELLIOTT,  Sarah  Barnwell,  author;  d. 
Bishop  Stephen  and  Charlotte  Bull  (Barnwell) 
E.  (D.C.L.,  U.  of  the  South,  1913).  Mem.  Soc 
Colonial  Dames  S.C.,  Hist.  Soc.  S.C.,  United 
Daughters  of  Confederacy,  Descendants  of  Co 
lonial  Governors  of  S.C.;  pres.  Tenn.  Equal 
Suffrage  Assn.;  v.-p.  Southern  States  Woman's 
Suffrage  Conference.  C/Mbs:  Barnard,  Wednes 
day  Afternoon  (New  York),  Lyceum  (London). 
Author:  The  Felmeres,  1880;  A  Simple  Heart, 
1886;  Jerry,  1889;  John  Paget.  1S93;  The  Durket 
Sperret,  1897;  An  Incident,  and  Other  Happen 
ings,  1899;  Sam  Houston.  1900:  The  Making  of 
Jane,  1901.  Plays:  His  Majesty's  Servant.  Ad 
dress:  Sewanee,  Tenn. 


MISS  ELLIOTT'S  NOVELS 

In   Uniform  Style. 

JERRY. 

THE  FELMERES. 

JOHN  PAGET. 


HENRY  HOLT  &  CO., 
PUBLISHERS,  N.  Y. 


JOHN  FACET 


A  NOVEL 


BY 

(4.C. 


SARAH  BARNWELL  ELLIOTT 

AUTHOR   OF    "JERRY,"    "THE    FELMERES,"    "A    SIMPLE 
HEART  " 


"  To  man  propose  this  test — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way  ?  " 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY   HOLT   AND   COMPANY 
1893 


COPYRIGHT,  1892, 


HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


THE  MERSHON  COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


PS 


0 


DEDICATED 
TO   THE  MEMORY  OF 

Obv  ffatber, 

THE  RT.  REV.  STEPHEN   ELLIOTT,  D.  D., 
FIRST  BISHOP  OF  GEORGIA. 


JOHN    PAGET. 


i. 

"  The  branches  cross  above  our  eyes, 

The  skies  are  in  a  net ; 
And  what's  the  thing  beneath  the  skies 
We  two  would  most  forget  ? 
Not  birth,  my  love,  no,  no, — 
Not  death,  my  love,  no,  no, — 
The  love  once  ours,  but  ours  long  hours  ago." 

"T  SENT  for  you,  Claudia,  because "  then  he 

1  hesitated. 

"  Because  you  could  not  help  yourself,"  sug 
gested  a  voice  that  anyone,  man  or  woman,  would 
have  listened  to  until  its  last  cadence  faded. 

"  Yes,"  the  man  answered,  "  I  would  not  have 
troubled  you  else." 

"  No.  I  was  outlawed.  John  had  ceased  to 
be  my  brother,  and  his  children  had  none  of  my 
blood  in  their  veins.  Nothing  but  the  circum 
stance  of  their  being  twins  would  have  let  you 
turn  to  me  for  help." 

"  You  are  quite  right." 

"Alice  did  not  want  me?  To  put  it  gently, 
Alice  did  not  care  for  me  ;  and  yet,  I  might 


443318 


2  JOHN  PAGET. 

have  helped  her  in   all  these  months  of  her  ill 
ness." 

"  She  had  everything  that  was  necessary." 
"Alice  had  been  accustomed  to  luxuries." 
"The  war  had  cured  us  of  luxuriousness." 
"  And  my  Northern   money   could   not  have 
been  digested  ?  " 

"Some  of  Alice's  Northern  friends  were  very 
kind  to  her." 

"  It  was   only  my  money   then  ;  and  you  de 
clined  it.     Alice  loved  money ;  she  would  have 
taken   it.     You  are  angry?     Pardon   me,  but  I 
never  believed  in  my  brother  John's  wife.     Did 
John  bear  me  ill  will  to  the  last,  Carter?  " 
"  We  never  spoke  of  you." 
"  Do  you  think  he  bore  me  ill  will  ?  " 
"  You  caused  him  the  greatest  sorrow  of  his  life." 
"  If  my  marriage  was  all  his  sorrow,  my  brother 
was  fortunate.     Am  I  a  disgrace  because  I  mar 
ried  a  Northern  man  on  the  eve    of   the  war? 
Nonsense !  " 

"And  you  did  no  more  than  that,  Claudia?  " 
"  In  the  letter — no.     In  the  spirit "  look 
ing  up  at  the  man  who  had  crossed  the  room  and 
now  stood  close  beside  her. 

"  In  the  spirit,  how  was  it,  dear  ?  " 
Her  look   faltered.     It  was  the   thrill  in   his 
voice,  maybe,   or  the  "  dear  "  of   old    days  that 
made  things  about  her  seem  to  waver.     "  I  hurt 

you,  Carter — you  !     And    I "     She   stopped 

and  turned  her  face  aside. 


JOHN-  PA  GET.  3 

Carter  waited.  The  soft  curve  of  the  cheek 
was  so  near  him  ;  and  she  had  been  his  once — this 
woman.  The  bitterness  of  years  overwhelmed 
him  suddenly,  and  he  cried  j  "  And  you — what 
can  you  say?  "  bending  to  look  in  her  eyes.  The 
old  love  his  tenderness  had  wakened,  turned  and 
stung  itself  to  death. 

Moving  a  little  she  answered,  "  I  was  wise." 

"And  happy?  Made  happy  by  your  exceed 
ing  wisdom  ?  " 

"  Not  perfectly — not  as  happy  as  I  expected  to 
be,  perhaps,  but  happier  than  I  should  have  been 
under  any  other  circumstances." 

Fora  moment  they  stood  looking  hard  at  each 
other ;  then  Carter  went  away. 

The  room  in  which  Claudia  was  left  was  large  , 
and  well  proportioned  ;  but  the  walls  were  defaced, 
the  floors  were  bare  and  charred  in  places,  as  if 
fires  had  been  built  elsewhere  than  in  the  broad 
fireplace,  and  the  wainscoting  was  battered  and 
hacked.  The  furniture  it  contained  was  heavily 
carved,  and  on  the  table,  where  lunch  had  been 
served  for  one,  and  where  the  remnants  still  stood, 
were  odd  pieces  of  exquisite  china.  In  front  of 
the  hearth  there  was  a  square  of  worn  Turkey 
carpet ;  the  faded  curtains  that  draped  the  win 
dows  were  of  silk  damask,  and  the  pitchers  and 
bowls  that  stood  on  the  mutilated  sideboard 
were  of  heavy  beaten  silver. 

Outside    there    were    further    marks    of    past    • 
wealth.     The  side  windows,  opening  down  to  a 


4  JOHN  FACET. 

broad  piazza,  looked  out  on  curiously  designed 
gardens  where  the  camelias,  grown  into  trees,  were 
covered  with  perfect  flowers ;  where  the  roses 
were  opening  under  the  warm  March  sun,  and 
where  the  yellow  jasmine,  running  wild,  had 
climbed  to  the  tops  of  the  great  magnolia  trees. 
In  front  was  the  stately,  solemn  vista  of  the  live- 
oak  avenue,  draped  with  sweeping  gray  moss, 
and  meeting  overhead  so  that  the  yellow  sun 
shine  could  seldom  reach  the  white  shelled  road 
beneath.  About  this  circle  of  cultivation  the 
untouched  pine  forest  kept  guard,  swaying  and 
murmuring,  sighing  and  whispering  in  an  eternal 
monotone. 

To  Claudia,  alone  in  the  desolate  house,  the 
cry  came  strangely.  At  first  her  listening  was 
unconscious,  for  her  thoughts  were  busy.  Per 
haps  it  was  this  call  from  the  stately  pines  that 
disturbed  her — that  took  the  tones  of  voices  she 
had  loved  ;  for  old  laughter  sounded  faintly — old 
footsteps  echoed  through  the  empty  halls.  She 
walked  hastily  to  the  open  window.  The  fresh 
wind  swept  by  her,  swaying  the  old  curtains,  and 
bringing  in  faint  whiffs  of  garden  sweetness.  She 
paused  a  moment,  drawing  in  a  long  breath. 

"  I  will  go  to  the  landing,"  she  said  aloud, 
and  the  old  phrase  startled  her. 

A  quick  walk  in  the  sunshine  would  help  her. 
She  looked  about  for  some  other  head-covering 
than  her  traveling  bonnet  that  still  lay  on  the 
chair  where  she  had  placed  it  on  her  arrival.  It 


JOHN  PA  GET.  5 

seemed  an  absurd  thing  in  the  light  of  this 
Southern  sun,  and  going  back  to  an  old  habit,  she 
turned  into  the  hall  and  looked  up  to  the  rem 
nants  of  deer-antlers,  still  screwed  to  the  panel 
ing,  for  something  more  useful.  And  there,  as  if 
swept  back  like  her  memories,  was  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat  that  she  could  have  sworn  she  had 
left  there  six  years  before. 

"  Carter's,"  she  said,  reaching  it  down  and 
turning  it  about ;  then  she  put  it  on  and  left  the 
house.  Through  a  well  remembered  side  gate 
she  went,  turning  her  face  away  from  the  deserted 
outbuildings,  and  entering  quickly  the  dim  gloom 
of  a  long  cedar  walk.  A  raised  path  or  dam  it 
was,  for  the  land  was  low,  with  gnarled  old  cedars 
growing  along  one  side,  and  wild  myrtle  making 
a  dense  brake  on  the  other.  Overhead  the  pines 
met  across  the  path;  under  foot  the  shining 
brown  needles ;  on  all  sides  the  golden  jasmine  ; 
and  far  in  the  depths  of  the  wood,  where  the  pine- 
barren  turned  into  swamp,  stood  the  great  mag 
nolias,  and  the  solemn  cypress  trees  on  their  knees 
in  the  still,  brown  water. 

Claudia  knew  every  step  of  the  way,  every  turn 
of  the  path,  and  waited  a  little  before  she  passed 
the  last  curve,  where  she  knew  she  would  see  the 
brilliant  flash  of  the  river.  There  it  was  !  Time 
nor  war  could  change  that  ;  and  she  ran  as  she 
had  not  run  since  her  girlhood,  swiftly,  gladly, 
down  to  the  water's  edge.  The  broad  rush  of 
waters — how  wide — how  wide  it  was  to  the  far- 


6  JOHN  PA  GET. 

away  dim  line  of  woods  on  the  other  shore ! 
And  between  the  blues  of  wood  and  water  the 
low  stretch  of  brown  rice  fields,  with  a  storm 
house  standing  in  the  midst  like  a  sentinel.  The 
blue  sky  shone  and  sparkled  as  one  looked,  and 
the  sunlight  fell  in  a  deluge  of  glory. 

Close  about  her  feet  the  brown  rushes  ;  the 
line  of  foam  and  broken  sedge  left  on  the  low, 
shelled  bank  ;  the  rotting,  barnacle-covered  posts, 
scarcely  showing  above  the  water,  where  the 
boats  used  to  be  tied;  the  old  oak  bending  low 
over  the  stream.  Beyond,  bunches  of  wild  myrtle, 
ending  in  a  cane-brake.  Nothing  was  changed. 
She  stood  still  and  looked  and  listened. 

The  wind  came  across  the  river,  making  a  little 
white  shiver  as  it  came ;  it  trembled  in  the  dry 
rushes,  then  stole  away  to  the  swaying  pines — a 
cry — a  sob.  The  water  swished  up  softly  to  her 
feet.  There  came  the  sharp  rat-tat-tat  of  a  wood 
pecker,  and  far  away  in  the  dark  woods  the  cry  of 
a  dove. 

She  had  been  mad  to  come  back !  She  lifted 
her  clasped  hands  above  her  head — she  wrung 
them  together,  then  reached  them,  palms  upward, 
to  the  sky,  with  an  expression  on  her  downcast 
face  that  told  more  than  torture  could  have 
dragged  from  her  lips. 

She  laughed,  and  dropping  her  hands  at  her 
sides,  sat  dowji  on  the  bare  roots  of  the  old  oak. 

This  had  been  a  favorite  seat  of  hers  and 
Carter's.  It  was  here  that  she  had  told  him  of 


JOHN  FACET.  7 

her  decision  to  marry  Mr.  Van  Kuyster.  His 
first  look  of  contempt  had  been  withering,  and 
her  cheeks  burned  at  the  memory.  This  morning 
Carter  had  given  her  that  same  look. 

In  every  line  of  the  letter  he  had  sent  her,  and 
which  had  brought  her  South,  she  had  read  defi 
ance,  and  in  so  many  plain  words  was  the  assur 
ance  that  "  only  the  starving  necessity  of  others 
could  have  driven  him  to  her."  That  had  seemed 
natural,  but  his  bitterness,  as  she  had  realized  it 
this  morning,  seemed  immeasurable.  How  had 
he  ever  appealed  to  her  ?  The  letter  had  hurt  her. 
The  difficulty  of  winning  from  her  husband  per 
mission  to  come  had  been  great,  and  surrounded 
by  hard  conditions.  She  had  suffered  much 
humiliation  in  order  to-help  Carter. 

She  shied  an  oyster  shell  into  the  river,  smil 
ing  when  she  found  that  she  had  not  lost  the 
art.  So  many  things  the  boys  had  taught  her. 
The  smile  died  from  her  lips,  her  eyes  grew 
brighter  and  harder.  She  leaned  back  against 
the  tree,  and  looked  out  across  the  shining  water. 
She  had  not  been  the  only  one  to  blame. 
Alice  had  made  her  life  miserable  ;  John  had 
taken  his  wife's  view  of  things,  and  Carter  had 
seemed  to  look  on  Alice  as  perfection.  Between 
them  they  had  made  her  desperate.  A  young, 
sensitive  thing  is  easily  driven  to  desperation. 

A  step  sounded  near.  She  rose  quickly,  and 
confronted  Carter. 

"It  is  not  safe  to  come  so  far  alone,"  he  said. 


8  JOHN  FACET. 

"  Safe  !     Must  I  be  afraid  of  the  negroes  ?  " 

"  Not  of  our  own,"  Carter  answered,  "  but  there 
are  many  strange  negroes  about." 

An  uneasy  silence  fell  between  them,  while 
Claudia  thought,  "  I  have  betrayed  weakness  in 
coming  to  this  old  haunt,"  and  Carter  thought, 
"She  remembers,  at  least ;  "  then  he  said:  "  The 
little  boys  have  waked  from  their  nap  if  you  wish 
to  see  them." 

"  I  wish  to  see  them  very  much,"  Claudia 
answered  formally,  and  they  turned  their  steps 
toward  the  house. 

"  The  war  has  made  no  difference  in  this  walk," 
Claudia  went  on,  preferring  talk  to  silence. 

"  It  was  entirely  overgrown  when  we  came 
back." 

"  It  does  not  look  as  if  it  had  been  touched," 
she  answered,  then  the  silence  came  again. 

To  Carter  the  silence  was  nothing.  The  woman 
beside  him  was  so  entirely  the  cousin  of  bygone 
days,  even  to  his  old  hat  that  she  had  put  on  and 
had  forgotten,  that  to  make  talk — to  do  anything 
but  feel,  through  every  fiber  of  his  being,  would 
have  seemed  monstrous  to  him.  How  prettily  the 
old  hat  drooped  about  her  softly  rounded  face, 
where  scarcely  a  tint  or  a  line  was  changed.  The 
years  that  had  made  him  an  old  man  seemed  not 
to  have  touched  her.  He  wondered  if  she  would 
ever  grow  old — if  the  light  would  ever  fade  from 
her  changeful  eyes  and  face,  the  music  from  her 
voice.  He  and  John  had  helped  to  bring  her  up 


JOHN  FACET.  9 

and  educate  her ;  had  taken  entire  care  of  her 
after  her  father's  death — the  wild,  pretty  child 
they  had  found  it  so  hard  to  discipline.  He  had 
no  wish  to  talk  as  they  sauntered  over  the  brown 
pine  needles.  His  life  was  past,  and  in  that  past 
his  mind  and  heart  were  busy.  He  might  live  a 
long  time  yet,  but  he  had  no  hope  in  store  for  that 
possible  future. 

"  What  are  the  names  of  the  children,  Carter?  " 

"  The  names?  oh,  yes!  why  John  and  Claude, 
of  course." 

"Claude?"  looking  up  quickly.  "Claude, 
after " 

"  Your  mother." 

Her  look  held  his  for  a  moment,  then  she 
turned  away. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  she  said,  "  for  I  never  knew 
my  mother."  The  momentary  hope  that  she  had 
been  remembered  by  her  brother  had  made  her 
glad.  Carter  had  not  let  this  gladness  draw  one 
breath  ;  but  he  had  not  known  that  to  kill  her  joy 
would  hurt  him. 

There  was  silence  after  this  until  they  entered 
the  hall,  and,  as  of  old,  Claudia  swung  her  hat  to 
cast  it  up  to  the  stag's  horns.  She  stopped  with 
her  arm  poised,  while  her  cheeks  burned,  and  her 
eyes  met  Carter's  like  the  eyes  of  a  guilty  child. 

"  My  bonnet  would  not  have  served,"  she 
said. 

It  was  not  in  man  to  withstand  the  look,  and 
Carter  took  the  hat  from  her  gently.  "  You  al- 


10  JOHN  PA  GET. 

ways  liked  our  hats  better  than  your  own,  dear," 
he  said.  "  It  was  only  an  old  habit." 

Old  habits  ?  Of  one  thing  she  was  sure,  she 
must  get  away.  She  went  into  the  dining  room 
like  one  in  a  dream.  Children's  voices  greeted 
her,  and  she  stopped  just  inside  the  door.  She 
could  not  see  them,  for  they  were  playing  under 
the  great,  old-fashioned  table,  but  she  had  not 
moved  a  step  forward  before  she  was  clasped  so 
suddenly  about  the  knees  that  she  would  have 
fallen  but  for  Carter,  who  followed  close  behind. 

"  Old  Tenah,"  he  whispered,  his  mustache 
brushing  her  cheek,  and  Claudia  looked  down 
into  the  wrinkled,  black  face  of  the  old  negress 
kneeling  before  her. 

"  Mawmer  !  "  she  cried,  and  put  her  soft  white 
hands  tenderly  about  the  small  old  face.  "  I  was 
afraid  you  were  dead,  Mawmer — I  was  afraid  to 
ask."  The  old  negress  was  standing  now,  scarcely 
reaching  to  Claudia's  shoulder,  and  kissing  over 
and  over  again  the  little  hands  she  held. 

"Me  chile — me  missus — me  little  chile!  "she 
murmured  in  her  soft,  flat  voice,  "  I  nebber  tink 
to  see  dis  day — old  Mawsa  chile  come  back — teng 
Gawd — teng  Gawd  !  " 

This  was  the  first  remembered  voice  of  Claudia's 
childhood.  These  old  hands  had  cared  for  her  ; 
these  old  eyes  had  watched  her  lovingly  ;  in  these 
old  arms  she  had  found  comfort  for  all  her  child 
ish  troubles.  And  now  this  faithful  heart  had 
given  her  the  only  welcome  she  had  found, 


JOHN  PA  GET.  II 

She  drew  one  hand  away,  and  laid  it  about  the 
old  negress's  shoulder. 

"  You  love  me,  Mawmer  ?  "  she  asked  wistfully. 

"  Dawter !  "  and  ceasing  her  caresses  the  old 
woman  looked  up  reproachfully;  "you  ax  me 
dat  ?  Who  I  got  in  dis  wull  'sides  you  an'  Mass 
Cahter  an'  Mass  Johnny  chilluns?  Fahder  in 
heben,  who  I  got  ?  "  her  voice  breaking  into  a 
wail,  and  seating  herself  on  the  woodbox  near 
the  hearth,  she  rocked  back  and  forth  repeat 
ing  :  "  Who  I  got — who  I  got  ! "  There  was  a 
scrambling  rush,  and  from  under  the  table  the 
children  came,  crying  out,  "  Mawmer,  Mawmer!  " 
and  clung  about  her. 

Claudia  looked  with  swelling  heart  on  these 
last  sons  of  her  father's  house — on  the  old  servant 
still  clinging  to  their  fallen  fortunes — on  the 
signs  of  careful  poverty  that  were  everywhere. 
The  short-waisted  jackets  and  old-fashioned  long 
trousers  of  the  little  boys  ;  the  homemade  woolen 
shoes ;  the  colorlessness  of  the  old  woman's  frock, 
and  apron,  and  head  handkerchief — all  so  faded, 
so  darned,  so  clean. 

Carter  watched  her.  He,  who  for  years  had 
loved  and  studied  her  face,  could  read  every 
thought  and  feeling.  She  had  shown  herself 
strong,  and  hard,  and  cold  in  the  years  that  were 
gone  ;  this  morning  she  had  betrayed  some  heart 
— what  would  she  do  now  ? 

One  moment  longer  Claudia  stood  aloof,  then 
with  a  hasty  movement  she  knelt  beside  the  little 


12  JOHN  PA  GET. 

group.  "I  am  your  child  too,  Mawmer  ?  "  she 
pleaded,  and  her  face  went  down  on  the  old 
negress's  lap,  and  her  tears  fell  once  more  where 
so  often  they  had  been  shed.  It  was  Carter's 
turn  now  to  suffer,  and  leaving  the  house  he 
walked  fast  and  far  until  the  sun  set  and  the  soft 
red  light  that  came  with  the  death  of  the  day 
spread  over  the  level,  moss-draped,  solemn  land. 

And  when  he  reached  home  some  magic 
seemed  to  have  changed  the  place.  The  cur 
tains  were  drawn  ;  the  fire  burned  brightly  ;  the 
pitifully  thin  homemade  candles  were  lighted  ; 
flowers  made  a  sweet  radiance  on  the  table ;  the 
children  were  playing  on  the  floor,  and  Claudia 
and  Tenah  were  arranging  supper. 

He  paused  just  within  the  door — had  his  old 
dream  come  true  ? — and  a  cruel  sweetness  said  : 

"  You  look  so  weary,  Carter  !  " 

"  I  am,"  he  answered,  crossing  the  room  and 
sitting  down  near  the  fire;  "  I  am  very  weary." 

When  supper  was  over  and  the  table  cleared, 
old  Tenah  came  for  the  children.  T\vo  little 
boys — one  fair,  and  strong,  and  beautiful  ;  one 
dark,  and  plain  ;  and  Claudia,  watching,  saw  Car 
ter  kiss  the  fair  one  lightly,  but  the  dark  one  he 
took  into  his  arms.  "  He  loves  little  John  best," 
she  thought,  "  the  other  boy  has  my  name." 
When  the  door  closed  she  said,  "I  must  go  to 
morrow,  Carter." 

"  To-morrow  !" 

"Yes,  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  take  both  the 


JOHN  FACET.  13 

boys,  but  I  cannot."  A  burning  color  stained 
her  face.  "  My  husband  is  an  old  man,  you  know, 
and  two  children  would  annoy  him." 

"Yes,"  Carter  answered,  looking  steadily  into 
the  fire.  Why  did  she  mention  her  "  husband  "  to 
him?  Then  he  added,  "My  object  in  writing 
to  you  was  not  to  burden  you  with  either  of  the 
children,  but  only  to  arrange  for  their  maintenance 
until  I  was  in  a  position  myself  to  support  and 
educate  them.  I  am  sorry  that  I  had  to  trouble 
you  at  all." 

"  I  know  that  ;  but  in  any  case  I  should  have 
claimed  one.  I  have  no  children,  and  one  will  be 
a  happiness  to  me." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments,  then  Car 
ter  said  with  an  impassible  look  on  his  face, 
"  Which  one  will  you  take  ?  " 

"  Claude,"  Claudia  answered,  and  saw  the  whole 
man  relax. 

"That  is  best,"  he  said  quickly.  "He  looks 
like  you  ;  I  thought  you  would  prefer  Claude  for 
his  good  looks." 

He  had  misjudged  her.  John's  great,  steadfast 
eyes  had  won  her  too,  they  were  so  like  her 
brother's.  But  she  had  seen  that  Carter  loved 
John  best. 

"John  has  the  ancestral  name  too,  John  Paget," 
Carter  went  on.  "  Then  Tenah  understands 
John,  and  will  go  with  us." 

"  You  leave  the  old  place  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I    cannot    bear  it    now,  and    it   would 


14  JOHN  FACET. 

be  bad  for  John  to  grow  up  here  among  tradi 
tions  of  lost  things.  We  shall  go  West ;  to 
Texas,  I  hope  ;  I  am  in  correspondence  about  a 
place  called  Corpus  Christi." 

"  What  will  you  do  there  ?  " 

"  The  ministry." 

Claudia  turned  away.  This  choice  of  a  pro 
fession  had  been  a  long  battle  between  them  in 
the  olden  time. 

"  I  was  ready  for  ordination  when  the  war 
came,  you  remember,  and  deferred  it  only  until 
that  struggle  should  be  over.  If  Alice  had  lived, 
I  should  have  put  it  off  still  longer  in  order  to 
plant  this  place  for  her;  but  now  as  I  have  only 
John  and  can  go  away,  I  shall  be  ordained  as 
soon  as  possible." 

"And  the  old  place?" 

"  Is  mortgaged.  Only  to  satisfy  Alice  would 
I  have  tried  to  pay  the  debts.  The  silver  will  be 
sold,  and  I  will  send  Claude's  share  to  you." 

"  To  Mr.  Van  Kuyster,"  Claudia  corrected, 
with  a  new  bitterness  in  her  voice,  "he  adopts 
the  boy." 

'•  Carter  bent  his  head.  For  a  moment  he  was 
still,  then  the  words,  "Will  he  change  the  child's 
name?"  seemed  to  break  from  his  lips  against 
his  will. 

The  pain  in  his  voice  was  very  clear  to  Claudia 
as  she  looked  thoughtfully  into  the  fire.  But 
why  should  he  not  suffer?  She  herself  had  felt 
the  bitterness  of  her  husband's  condition  that  a 


JOHN  PA  GET.  15 

Paget  should  be  made  to  perpetuate  the  name  of 
Van  Kuyster.  Carter  would  feel  it  doubly,  but 
why  not  hand  it  on  ?  He  had  been  willingto  give 
up  the  ministry  for  Alice,  but  not  for  her.  He 
disliked  little  Claude  because  the  child  looked 
like  her  and  had  her  name.  He  had  no  belief  in 
her  ;  no  respect  for  her ;  no  mercy.  He  was  as 
hard  as  steel  save  where  his  pride  was  touched  ; 
and  he  would  have  done  more  for  Alice  than  for 
her,  and  she  used  to  beg  him  so.  Why  need  she 
trouble  to  mitigate  any  truth  for  him,  or  soften 
any  fact  ?  And  she  answered  : 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Van  Kuyster  wants  the  boy  to  be  as 
much  his  as  possible." 

There  was  a  sound  like  the  echo  of  a  sob,  and 
Carter  turned  his  face  away. 

"  If  you  had  given  up  the  ministry  for  civil 
engineering,  as  I  tried  to  persuade  you  long  ago, 
you  could  have  kept  both  the  boys,  could  not 
you  ?  "  Claudia  suggested. 

Carter  did  not  answer,  and  she  went  on. 

"  Of  course  it  is  too  late  now,  for  I  claim 
Claude.  He  shall  keep  Paget  as  his  middle 
name,  and  Claude  because  it  is  my  own." 

Carter  got  up  and  went  to  the  window.  Very 
still  he  stood  looking  blindly  on  the  moonbeams 
that,  not  satisfied  with  the  broad  sweep  of  the 
garden,  strove  vainly  to  pierce  the  dense  shadow 
of  the  avenue.  Presently  he  turned  and  looked 
to  where  Claudia  sat  in  the  red  circle  of  fire 
light.  He  drew  a  short,  sharp  breath  ;  had 


1 6  JOHN  PA  GET. 

necessity  been  his  only  motive  in  sending  for 
her? 

"  Do  you  realize  that  little  John  will  be  the 
only  Paget  left  ?  "  he  asked  harshly. 

Claudia  looked  up.  "The  last  Paget,"  she  re 
peated,  "  so  he  will.  I  always  forget  that  you 
are  a  cousin  and  named  Wilton." 

"And  still  you  take  Claude's  name  away?" 

At  last  he  was  pleading — pride  at  least  could 
move  him. 

"  Mr.  Van  Kuyster  is  the  last  of  his  name," 
she  said  quietly,  "  and  he  adopts  a  son  of  good 
blood  in  order  to  perpetuate  his  name."  She 
knew  how  Carter's  eyes  would  flash  and  burn, 
and  she  looked  to  see.  Like  a  mortally  wounded 
man  he  flung  up  his  arms,  and  she  heard  a  bitter, 
inarticulate  cry  !  Transfixed,  she  gazed  at  him 
leaning  against  the  window  with  his  face  half 
hidden  in  the  curtain.  He  was  hard  enough  for 
anything ;  why  had  he  not  turned  on  her — 
poured  the  bitterest  reproaches  on  her — done 
anything  but  give  that  cry? 

Carter  Wilton  was  hard.  His  love  and  trust 
trampled  in  the  dust,  he  had  gone  out  into  the 
bloody  mist  of  war,  and  groped  for  death  as  the 
only  hope  left  in  life.  Ruined  and  defeated,  he 
had  touched  that  round  of  suffering  where  one  is 
thankful  when  those  they  love  die.  He  had  a 
right  to  be  hard. 

He  came  back  to  his  chair  by  the  fire,  asking 
Claudia  if  she  would  mind  his  pipe. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  17 

"It  is  not  a  necessity,"  he  said. 

''No,"  she  answered;  "no,  I  will  not  mind." 
She  scarcely  knew  what  she  said,  she  was  so 
longing  to  tell  him  all  the  misery  of  her  life — to 
tell  him  how  bitter  her  punishment  was.  It 
might  help  him,  and  she  would  give  her  life  to 
help  him. 

"  Will  Mr.  Van  Kuyster  educate  Claude  for 
any  profession  ?"  Carter  asked  presently  from 
out  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"There  will  be  no  necessity;  he  will  be  Mr. 
Van  Kuyster's  heir." 

"  I  had  forgotten — "  and  Carter  blew  out  a  ring 
of  smoke.  "  I  hope  that  you  and  the  boy  will 
be  very  happy,  Claudia." 

"Thank  you." 

"  And  however  much  I  regret  the  necessity 
for  separating  the  brothers,  I  think  I  am  doing 
the  best  thing  in  my  power.  I  will  educate  John 
myself ;  it  will  be  an  object." 

"And  Claude  shall  have  every  advantage," 
Claudia  rejoined,  casting  about  for  some  method 
of  stopping  this  foolish  babble.  "  What  time 
will  I  have  to  leave  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"  The  train  passes  at  eleven,  and  the  steamer 
sails  at  four." 

"  That  will  give  me  time  in  town  for  a  little 
shopping." 

"  And  to  see  some  friends,"  Carter  suggested. 

"  Scarcely." 

Carter   cleared    his   throat.     "  I    forgot ;    you 


1 8  JOHN  PA  GET. 

must  not  blame  us  too  much.  The  South  feels 
her  failure  very  bitterly,  and  even  old  friends 
must  forgive  a  little  coldness  if  they  come  from 
the  North.  In  a  little  while  it  will  be  different." 

"Doubtless;  but  I  will  have  no  call  to  come 
back ;  even  the  old  place  will  be  in  strange  hands." 
Then  a  sudden  thought  flashed  into  her  mind  ; 
so  sudden,  so  simple  that  she  uttered  a  little 
exclamation. 

Carter  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  "  What  is 
it?"  he  asked. 

"  Nothing — nothing,"  but  a  new  expression 
was  on  her  face,  and  she  said  good-night  in  a 
preoccupied  way. 

When  she  was  gone  Carter  dashed  his  old  clay 
pipe  into  the  fire  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands. 

"  She  will  buy  the  silver  and  the  place,"  he 
groaned. 

But  he  made  not  a  sign  the  next  day  when 
she  asked  who  held  the  mortgage  on  the  place, 
and  where  the  silver  would  be  left  for  sale.  He 
had  himself  well  in  hand  by  that  time  ;  he 
even  smiled  when  old  Tenah  said  with  joy : 
"  Miss  Clauddy  is  gwine  left  awl  Mass  Cluddy 
cloze  fuh  Mass  Johnny." 

What  he  had  been  able  to  provide  was  not 
good  enough.  Of  course  not,  but  it  hurt  him. 

To  Claudia  that  day  was  like  a  dream.  Old 
Tenah's  tears  and  blessings,  and  John's  pitiful 
cries  as  they  drove  away  from  the  old  place. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  19 

The  slow  journey  across  the  wide  rivers  and  level 
rice  fields — through  the  dim  swamps  and  into  the 
old  dreamy  town.  The  worried  shopping  ;  the 
settling  in  the  steamer;  the  last  farewell  to  Car 
ter;  his  mute  acceptance  of  the  package  she  sent 
back  to  John  and  Tenah.  And  at  the  last  she 
looked  into  his  deep,  sad  eyes — so  weary — so 
lonely. 

"  God  keep  you,"  he  said,  then  hastily  turned 
away. 

The  great  steamer  moved  slowly,  leaving  the 
beautiful  old  town  sleeping  beside  her  tawny 
river. 


II. 

"  This  is  a  spray  the  bird  clung  to, 

Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 
Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 

Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 

Oh,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 
Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  flying  feet  hung  to, 
So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung  to! " 

/"^LOSE  in  the  curve  of  a  crescent  of  chaparral, 
\j  that  grew  on  the  side  of  a  dip  in  the  prairie, 
there  stood  a  small  group  of  buildings.  A  low, 
unpainted  frame  house  of  two  rooms ;  a  smaller 
outhouse  of  the  same  material,  and  one  or  two 
h"ts  built  of  mud  and  brush  after  the  Mexican 
fashion.  From  point  to  point  of  the  protecting 
crescent  of  chaparral  there  was  a  high  fence  or 
hedge  of  cactus,  filled  in,  where  the  cactus  failed, 
with  thorny  brush,  the  combination  making  a  most 
effective  barrier.  The  entrance  to  the  inclosure 
was  by  a  winding  path  through  the  chaparral  at 
the  back  of  the  houses.  The  place  was  known 
as  "  Marsden's "  when  known  at  all,  which  was 
seldom;  for  it  was  not  easy  to  find.  There  were 
no  landmarks  anywhere  to  guide  the  seeker,  and 
it  was  so  cleverly  screened  that  even  in  winter 
when  the  foliage  was  gone  the  low,  weather- 
stained  houses  were  not  easily  descried. 


JOHN  PAGET.  21 

No  actual  crimes  could  be  traced  to  the 
Marsdens,  but  they  were  not  considered  safe, 
and  many  prophecies  were  afloat  in  the  surround 
ing  country,  to  the  effect  that  startling  revelations 
would  be  made  some  day.  It  was  many  years 
since  Marsden's  first  appearance ;  indeed  no  one 
knew  very  clearly  the  date  of  his  advent.  But 
when  he  first  became  differentiated  from  the 
surrounding  country,  it  was  as  a  lone  man  living 
somewhere  out  on  the  prairie,  with  only  a  tiny 
girl  for  companion.  He  came  into  Corpus 
Christi  sometimes  to  buy  supplies,  and  the  baby 
was  always  hanging  over  his  bridle-arm,  and  the 
women  said  that  of  course  his  wife  was  dead. 
Then  he  disappeared  for  several  years.  Not  that 
anyone  thought  of  him  as  appearing  or  dis 
appearing,  or  thought  of  him  at  all,  for  that 
matter,  but  after  a  while,  when  a  gaudy  creature 
came  to  buy  provisions,  who  called  herself  Mrs. 
Marsden,  people  remembered  Marsden  and  the 
baby,  and  that  they  had  not  seen  them  for  years. 
The  loud-voiced  woman  had  two  small  boys  with 
her  who  called  her  mother.  A  day  or  two  later 
Marsden  rode  into  the  town  ;  the  little  fair-faced 
girl  was  with  him  still,  but  she  was  big  enough 
to  ride  alone  ;  at  least  her  father  thought  so, 
and  her  saddle  was  a  sheepskin  strapped  on  the 
horse. 

Then  the  women  made  sure  that  her  own 
mother  was  dead  and  the  present  Mrs.  Marsden 
was  her  stepmother.  After  this  the  Marsdens 


22  JOHN  PA  GET. 

seemed  to  be  permanent  features  in  the  landscape  ; 
and  a  place,  somewhere  out  on  the  prairie,  came 
to  be  called."  Marsden's."  Where  they  had  come 
from,  and  how  they  lived,  was  their  own  affair, 
and  in  those  days,  in  Texas,  it  was  considered  the 
better  plan  to  mind  one's  own  business,  and  to 
attend  to  one's  neighbor  only  when  he  got  into 
a  difficult  position  and  asked  one's  help.  So  the 
Marsdens  lived  their  own  life  in  their  own  way. 
The  little  girl  grew  to  be  a  big  girl,  and  had  a 
saddle  when  she  saw  fit,  and  the  small  boys  grew 
to  be  very  hard  cases,  and  very  skillful  cowboys. 
From  the  time  they  were  ten  and  twelve,  they 
were  in  great  request  in  the  driving  season,  the 
only  young  fellow  who  could  compete  with  the 
Marsdens,  father  and  sons,  as  a  shot  and  as  a 
rider,  being  John  Paget,  the  young  cousin  of  the 
Reverend  Carter  Wilton,  the  clergyman  in  Cor 
pus  Christi. 

But  John  Paget  held  a  very  different  position 
in  the  community  from  the  Marsdens.  It  was 
perfectly  well  known  that  he  made  his  living  as 
a  cowboy  in  the  busy  seasons  ;  but  to  obtain  his 
services  was  difficult.  There  were  only  certain 
people  for  whom  he  would  drive,  and  then  only 
if  he  had  complete  control.  His  terms  were 
always  accepted,  however,  as  he  was  universally 
wanted,  and  as  popular  as  he  would  permit  him 
self  to  be.  He  seemed  to  enjoy,  as  the  rest  did, 
the  recklessness  of  a  cowboy's  existence,  but  once 
his  time  of  service  expired,  and  he  was  back  in 


JOHN  FACET.  23 

Corpus,  his  life  was  as  secluded  as  a  nun's  almost, 
and  report  ran  that  he  was  never  seen  without  a 
book  in  his  hands.  He  had  a  little  boat  ;  and 
old  Calavaros,  a  Spaniard  ranchero,  gave  him  a 
steady  job  of  horse-breaking  and  training,  which 
placed  many  beasts  at  young  Paget's  disposal. 
He  and  Mr.  Wilton  were  close  companions;  in 
deed,  Mr.  Wilton  had  no  other,  for  his  married 
life  with  a  young  Spanish  girl  had  been  of  very 
short  duration,  and  after  his  wife's  death,  which 
happened  when  John  was  a  young  boy,  he  had 
sent  his  baby  girl  to  a  convent  down  the  coast 
where  his  wife  had  been  brought  up.  A  truly 
pious  parish  in  a  truly  Christian  community  would 
have  wondered,  not  to  say  flared  up,  over  the  little 
Beatrice  being  placed  in  a  convent,  but  there  was 
no  sewing  society  in  Corpus  at  that  time,  nor  any 
altar  guilds,  nor  any  other  female  centers  in  which 
the  flare  could  begin.  In  truth,  out  on  those 
borders  the  fight  was  between  heathenism  and 
Christianity,  and  not  between  creeds.  Besides, 
Mr.  Wilton  was  a  dreamer,  and  his  only  wish  was 
that  his  daughter  should  be  trained  by  a  good 
woman  and  a  lady,  which  he  knew  the  Mother 
to  be.  Added  to  this,  it  was  the  last  and  only 
request  of  his  child-wife.  He  had  married  his 
wife  out  of  pity,  and  felt  sorry  for  her  still  ;  so, 
though  he  was  a  good  Protestant,  the  child  went 
to  the  convent,  and  he  and  John  Paget  lived  on 
together  with  old  Angela,  who  had  succeeded  old 
Tenah,  for  housekeeper,  and  maids,  and  cook,  and 


24  JOHN  FACET. 

boot-black,  everything,  in  short,  and  were  emi 
nently  comfortable. 

One  afternoon  a  wild  horse  of  old  Calavaros', 
a  beast  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  had  taken 
young  Paget  many  miles  farther  out  on  the 
prairie  than  he  had  dreamed  of  going,  and  riding 
back  in  the  dusk,  he  was  halted  from  behind  a 
large  bunch  of  cactus  and  mesquite.  John  drew 
rein,  then  obeyed  the  further  order  to  dismount 
and  give  up  his  valuables.  He  looked  over  the 
prairie,  however,  and  saw  that  for  miles  there  was 
not  another  hiding-place  for  man  or  beast — and 
listening,  he  heard  that  his  captor  was  a  Mexican. 
Deceived  by  John's  obedience,  the  robber  lowered 
his  pistol  for  the  space  of  a  breath  as  he  pushed 
John's  money  and  watch  into  his  pocket.  But 
that  second  was  enough,  his  pistol  was  struck 
from  his  ha-nd,  and  he  was  in  a  grasp  like  a  vise. 
It  took  John  about  two  minutes  to  disarm  his 
assailant,  and  to  tie  his  hands  behind  him.  When 
he  finished  he  said  : 

"You  are  Manuel  Planco ;  you  live  at  Mars- 
den's.  I  will  put  the  bridle  of  my  horse  around 
your  neck  so  that  you  can  lead  him,  but  you  had 
better  not  try  to  run.  You  know  the  horse  ;  he 
is  Calavaros'  horse  Black  Eagle  ;  he  bites  when 
he  is  provoked.  Is  it  Marsden's  horse  you  have 
tethered  there  behind  the  brush  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  will  bring  him.  Now  lead  the  way 
to  Marsden's.  Remember,  I  have  your  pistols 


JOHN  PA  GET.  25 

and  mine,  all  loaded — and  the  horse  bites." 
John  felt  the  Mexican  tremble,  and  knew  that  if 
he  could  see  him  he  would  look  gray,  for  that  is 
the  way  with  Mexicans  when  they  are  cold  or 
frightened.  Once  Manuel  had  turned  off  the  trail, 
there  was  seemingly  nothing  to  guide  him,  but 
though  going  carefully,  because  of  the  beast 
behind  him,  he  went  steadily  in  one  direction, 
and  after  a  while  a  line  of  chaparral  crossed  their 
line  of  march.  Into  this  Manuel  went,  and  John 
followed  without  any  hesitation.  Presently  they 
entered  an  inclosure  and  Manuel  stopped. 

"  Marsden's,"  he  said. 

"All  right,"  John  answered,  "you  and  the 
horse  wait  here  until  I  see." 

His  knock  on  the  door  of  the  main  house  was 
answered  by  a  young  girl,  who  looked  very  much 
surprised. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Marsden's  house?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  Mr.  Marsden  at  home?" 

"  Yes."  Then  a  tall,  lean,  gray-headed  man, 
with  a  face  like  an  eagle,  came  to  the  door. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Marsden,"  the  young  man 
said  ;  "  Paget,  you  know." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  opening  the  door  wider. 
"  Come  in.  How  did  you  find  me  ?  " 

"  Out  on  the  trail,  Manuel  Planco  tried  to  rob 
me.  I  have  brought  him  in,  and  your  horse.  You 
will  find  my  watch  and  money  in  Manuel's  pocket. 
He  will  get  you  into  trouble,  Mr.  Marsden," 


26  JOHN  PA  GET. 

With  a  deep  oath  Marsden  closed  the  door 
and  stepped  out  into  the  yard  where  John  stood. 
They  found  Manuel  just  where  John  had  left  him, 
and  could  hear  his  teeth  chattering.  It  is  not 
necessary  to  give  old  Marsden's  address  to  Man 
uel,  save  to  say  that  it  finished  with  certain 
blood-curdling  threats  and  a  kick  that  sent  the 
creature  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  house 
door. 

"May  I  put  up  for  the  night?"  John  asked, 
as  he  restored  his  money  and  watch  to  their 
places. 

"Of  course;  I'll  send  the  boys  out  to  attend 
to  your  horse." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  do  that,"  John  answered; 
"  I  am  riding  Calavaros'  Black  Eagle." 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  that  devil  ?  " 

"No.  But  I  put  the  reins  round  Manuel's 
neck  as  we  walked  here.  Manuel  did  not  try  to 
run."  There  was  a  low  laugh,  then  old  Marsden 
opened  the  door  of  the  outhouse  that  was 
empty.  "  Put  him  in  there — the  other  horses 
we  leave  out  in  the  yard."  After  this  they  went 
into  the  house.  Within,  everything  was  as  rough 
as  possible,  but  the  food  and  drink  were  clean 
and  plentiful,  and  the  young  girl  seemed  to  be 
the  presiding  genius.  Mrs.  Marsden  could  be 
heard  quarreling  with  Manuel  and  one  of  her 
sons  in  the  next  room.  Her  language  was  not 
choice,  and,  as  her  utterance  was  thick,  John  drew 
the  very  correct  conclusion  that  she  was  drunk  ; 


JOHN  PA  GET.  27 

and  that  as  no  one  seemed  to  mind,  it  must  be  a 
common  occurrence. 

Up  to  this  time  John  had  known  the  two  Mars- 
den  boys,  who  were  much  younger  than  he,  only 
as  boys  whom  he  never  employed  on  his  drives  ; 
the  old  man  he  knew  only  by  sight.  He  had  felt 
some  curiosity  about  these  people  because  he 
had  heard  them  talked  of  mysteriously  and  care 
fully  ;  because  everybody  seemed  to  distrust 
them,  yet  have  no  specific  charges  against  them; 
because  nobody  could  ever  tell  him  exactly 
where  they  lived,  and  because,  as  a  little  boy,  he 
remembered  seeing  old  Marsden  ride  into  the 
town  with  the  baby  over  his  bridle-arm.  To  his 
knowledge  he  had  never  seen  the  girl  since, 
though  now  that  he  met  her  face  to  face,  he  rec 
ognized  her  as  a  person  whom  he  had  seen  some 
times  in  church.  That  old  Marsden's  girl  should 
go  to  church  was  another  complication. 

Mrs.  Marsden  and  Manuel  did  not  come  in  to 
supper,  seeming  to  prefer  to  quarrel  and  drink  in 
peace  in  the  next  room.  Old  Marsden  and  the 
two  boys  and  John  sat  down,  and  the  girl, 
Elizabeth,  waited  on  them.  After  supper  the 
boys  disappeared,  and  two  or  three  men  whom 
John  knew  well  as  desperadoes,  came  in.  They 
seemed  a  little  disconcerted  on  seeing  him,  but 
sat  down,  and  Elizabeth  bringing  in  glasses  and 
bottles  and  pipes,  the  night  began.  Elizabeth 
took  her  seat  in  a  low  chair  near  the  fire,  for  it 
was  winter. 


28  JOHN  PA  GET. 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  John  heard  some 
strange  revelations,  and  talk  that  made  his  cheeks 
burn  for  the  young  girl  near  the  fire.  Once  after 
an  awful  story  from  the  old  man,  their  eyes  met. 
Her  look  did  not  waver — her  color  did  not  rise — 
and  after  a  moment  in  which  her  eyes  told  him 
that  she  understood  his  feeling  for  her,  and  that 
such  feeling  was  a  waste  of  sympathy,  as  she  was 
quite  used  to  this  kind  of  thing,  she  returned 
quietly  to  the  reading  of  a  book  that  lay  open  on 
her  lap. 

John  drank  very  little.  In  the  first  place  he 
did  not  care  for  it ;  in  the  second,  it  would  not  be 
safe  to  drink  much  in  such  company.  Gradually 
speech  got  thicker,  and  the  talk  less  coherent ; 
then  Elizabeth  laid  her  book  on  the  floor  and 
came  to  her  father's  side. 

"You  had  better  lie  down  now,  father,"  she 
said.  After  a  few  oaths  the  old  man  essayed  to 
rise  ;  it  was  difficult, but  with  John's  assistance  he 
succeeded,  and  tottered  toward  the  door  of  the 
next  room. 

"  George  is  usually  here  to  help  me,"  Elizabeth 
said,  as  between  them  they  piloted  the  limp, 
lurching,  swearing  old  man  to  a  low  bed,  "  but 
to-night  he  and  Jim  have  gone  to  a  Mexican 
dance." 

On  another  bed  Mrs.  Marsden  was  snoring, 
and  Manuel,  on  the  floor  by  the  fire,  was  also 
asleep.  John  followed  Elizabeth  back  to  the 
kitchen,  and  watched  her  with  some  curiosity  as 


JOHN  PA  GET.  29 

she  spread  three  piles  of  hides  and  blankets  in 
three  corners  of  the  room,  and  ordered  the  other 
men  to  go  and  lie  down.  They  seemed  to  be 
accustomed  to  it,  and  did  as  the  girl  told  them. 

"  Now  I  will  show  you  a  place  to  sleep,"  she 
said. 

"And  you?"  John  asked,  "you  cannot  stop 
in  here." 

"Oh,  no  !  My  place  is  in  a  loft  outside;  but  I 
must  clear  all  this  away  first." 

"  I  will  help  you." 

When  all  was  done,  and  the  fire  made  safe,  she 
led  him  to  one  of  the  huts  outside,  which  evi 
dently  had  been  prepared  for  him. 

"The  boys  sleep  in  the  other  cabin,"  she  said  ; 
"  they  will  not  disturb  you  when  they  come  ;  and 
I  live  up  in  that  loft,"  pointing  to  the  top  of  the 
shanty  where  John's  horse  had  been  put. 

"  But  my  horse  is  in  the  lower  part ;  will  he  not 
disturb  you  ?" 

"No,  horses  are  often  put  in  there." 

"  And  are  you  not  afraid  ?  " 

"No,  I  have  a  pistol  and  a  Winchester;  I  am 
quite  safe.  Often  and  often  I  am  the  only  sober 
creature  on  the  place;  but  I  am  never  afraid." 
Then  she  said  good-night  and  went  away,  and  John 
turned  into  the  little  hut  with  much  to  think  of, 

The  next  morning  he  was  up  at  an  early  hour, 
to  find  Elizabeth  arranging  the  breakfast  table 
out  in  the  yard. 

"  Those  people  are  still  asleep  in  .the   house," 


30  JOHN  FACET. 

she  said,  "  and  as  it  is  not  cold  I  think  it  will  be 
pleasanter  out  here." 

By  daylight  her  face  seemed  fresher  and  more 
appealing.  She  was  not  handsome  perhaps,  but 
there  was  something  that  attracted  John  strongly. 
It  might  be  only  the  contrast  to  her  surroundings, 
but  she  struck  him  as  being  so  undefiled.  Purity 
was  an  unmistakable  thing,  and  her  clear  stead 
fast  eyes  must  look  out  of  a  pure  heart  and  mind. 

"  I  saw  you  reading  last  night,"  John  said  ; 
"  what  was  it  ?  " 

"  '  Ivanhoe,'  "  was  answered,  to  his  great  aston 
ishment. 

"  I  have  very  few  books,"  she  went  on  ;  "  only  a 
remnant  of  what  father  used  to  have,  and  one  or 
two  that  belonged  to  my  own  mother.  Mrs. 
Marsden  is  not  my  mother." 

"  Of  course  not ;  and  the  boys  are  only  your 
half-brothers." 

"  Yes,  but  they  have  Marsden  blood  in  their 
veins,  and  maybe  they  will  do  something  some 
day."  John  stirred  his  coffee  slowly,  as  he  pon 
dered  on  the  words  "  Marsden  blood" — what  was 
there  in  the  old  reprobate  to  be  proud  of? 

"And  you  are  fond  of  reading?  "  he  went  on. 

"Yes.  When  Mrs.  Marsden  is  herself,  she  man 
ages  everything ;  then  I  have  little  to  do  except 
ride  and  read,  and  I  read  whatever  I  can  find. 
We  stayed  a  long  time  in  San  Antonio  once,  and 
father  let  me  go  to  school." 

"Perhaps  I  can  lend   you    some  books,"  John 


JOHN  PA  GET.  31 

suggested.  "I  am  a  horse-breaker  and  a  cowboy, 
but  between  the  busy  seasons  I  do  a  good  deal 
of  reading  and  studying.  My  cousin,  Mr.  Wilton, 
you  know,  has  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  on  my 
education.  Perhaps  I  can  help  you." 

"  I  know  all  about  you,"  Elizabeth  answered 
quickly,  "  and  several  times  I  have  been  on  the 
point  of  stopping  you  and  asking  you  a  favor. 
But  I  was  afraid  that,  when  you  heard  who  I  was, 
you  would  not  listen  to  me.  Last  night,  when  I 
opened  the  door  for  you,  I  thought — 'God  has 
sent  nim  here  to  help  me.'  " 

"And  the  favor?" 

"That  you  will  be  kind  to  my  brothers.  They 
admire  you  ;  you  can  do  them  good  if  you  will." 

"  I  will,"  John  answered  promptly. 

So  it  was  that  John  Paget  came  to  know  the 
Marsdens.  After  this  he  often  carried  books 
to  the  girl,  and  kept  faithfully  his  promise  to 
befriend  the  boys. 

When  it  was  observed  that  these  young  fellows 
were  constantly  with  him,  and  when  later  it  came 
to  be  known  that  Paget  went  constantly  to  Mars- 
den's,  it  aroused  much  interest ;  far  more  than 
the  sending  of  little  Beatrice  to  the  Convent  had 
done,  because  it  seemed  a  stranger,  and  a  far 
more  dangerous  thing.  It  was  a  dreadful  step 
down  for  young  Paget.  Few  comments  were 
made,  however,  for  manifestly  Paget  and  Mr. 
Wilton  were  old  enough  to  manage  their  own 
affairs ;  and  neither  Paget  nor  the  Marsdens 


32  JOHN  FACET. 

were  safe  objects  of  criticism.     So  events  moved 
quietly. 

The  gray  prairie  stretched  without  a  break  out 
to  the  far  horizon,  where  it  met  the  gray  sky. 
Down  in  the  west  a  long  red  gash  showed  that 
the  sun  had  set.  The  low,  steady  wind,  that  blew 
straight  from  the  north,  had  a  relentless  sound 
that  promised  length,  and  strength,  and  at  last  a 
touch  from  the  polar  seas. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  path  that  led  through 
the  chaparral  into  the  inclosure,  Elizabeth  waited, 
with  a  red  setter  puppy  at  her  feet.  Her  arms 
were  crossed,  and  she  leaned  against  one  of  the 
small,  gnarled  trees.  She  was  facing  the  north 
and  the  wind,  but  her  head  was  turned,  and  her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  red  bar  down  in  the 
west. 

Presently,  far  off,  she  heard  the  thud  of  a 
horse's  hoofs ;  the  ground  was  so  baked  by 
drought  that  the  sound  traveled  a  long  distance. 
She  moved  as  she  heard  it,  and  calling  the  dog, 
withdrew  into  the  woods  by  the  little  path.  She 
did  not  want  to  be  found  waiting  and  watching 
save  by  one.  Her  surroundings  demanded  great 
circumspection.  Presently  she  saw  the  horseman 
silhouetted  black  against  the  gray  sky ;  for  a 
moment  she  watched  him,  then  she  and  the 
puppy  she  called  "  Wamba"  came  back  to  where 
they  had  been  waiting,  and  took  position  as 
before. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  33 

The  horseman  was  not  riding  very  rapidly,  and 
when  he  saw  the  girl  he  did  not  seem  to  hasten 
at  all.  Evidently  it  was  the  usual  thing  to  find 
her  waiting  there.  Dismounting,  he  put  thehorse 
in  the  path,  and  struck  him  slightly  ;  this  seemed 
to  be  a  habit  too,  for  the  horse  trotted  quietly 
through  the  chaparral  into  the  inclosure.  Then 
the  horseman  stooped  and  touched  Elizabeth's 
brow  with  his  lips.  Elizabeth  put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders,  and  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"  I  am  a  tall  woman,  Jack,"  she  said,  "  but  you 
are  so  much  taller  that  I  cannot  kiss  you  unless 
you  will." 

Then  John  stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the 
lips. 

"  You  are  late,"  Elizabeth  went  on  ;  "  I  began 
be  be  afraid  that  you  would  not  come.  To-day 
is  my  birthday — don't  you  remember  ? — and  the 
anniversary.  Three  years  ago  to-day  you  came 
here  first,  and  I  have  always  looked  on  you  as  a 
birthday  gift." 

John's  eyes  grew  gloomier  as  she  spoke.  "  I 
ought  not  to  have  forgotten,"  he  said,  "  but " 

"You  did?" 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  did." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  while  Elizabeth 
turned  her  eyes  again  to  the  red  gash  down  in 
the  west  ;  but  she  did  not  move  her  hands  from 
where  they  were  on  John's  shoulders,  nor  did  he 
move  his  arm  from  where  it  rested  about  her 
waist — loosely,  but  still  it  was  about  her  waist. 


34  JOHN  PA  GET. 

Elizabeth  sighed  a  little,  but  there  was  a  smile  on 
her  lips  when  she  spoke. 

"  As  it  is  the  first  time  you  have  ever  for 
gotten,"  she  said,"  I  suppose  I  must  forgive  you. 
Three  years  is  a  long  time,  Jack,  and  to-day  I  am 
twenty.  It  is  hard  to  realize." 

"  I  don't  know,"  John  answered  ;  "  it  seems 
longer  than  that  since  I  came  here  first — it  seems 
ages." 

"  Counting  by  the  strides  in  my  education," 
the  girl  went  on,  "  it  seems  ages  to  me  too.  You 
have  been  very  good  to  me,  and  have  taught  me 
a  great  deal.  You  believe  in  my  gratitude,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so  ;  but  you  ought  not  to  be 
grateful." 

"  I  think  I  am  the  best  judge  of  that,"  Eliza 
beth  answered,  "  and  you  have  been  good  to  the 
boys  too.  But  what  is  wrong  this  evening — are 
you  ill  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  am  ill.  My  head  has  been  dull 
for  days,  and  now  it  aches  dreadfully.  As  for 
wrong — everything  is  wrong,  and  has  been  wrong 
from  beginning  to  end." 

Elizabeth  looked  up  with  a  slight  start,  as  one 
who  had  been  struck  unexpectedly. 

"My  cousin  came  nearer  to  lecturing  me  to 
day,"  John  went  on,  "  than  ever  in  my  life  be 
fore  ;  and  he  was  right." 

"What  did  he  say? "  Elizabeth  asked,  and 
moved  as  if  to  leave  the  circle  of  the  arm  that 


JOHN  PAGET.  35 

scarcely  touched  her.  It  did  not  tighten  its  hold  ; 
instead,  it  was  withdrawn.  Then,  as  if  she  had  in 
tended  to  move,  Elizabeth  took  her  original  posi 
tion,  leaning  against  a  tree  with  her  arms  crossed. 
John  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  He  did  not  say  much,"  he  answered,  "that  is 
not  my  cousin's  way ;  but  what  he  said  drove 
home." 

"  Does  he  know  anything  about  me — about 
your  coming  here?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  he  knows.  We  seldom 
talk  of  our  private  affairs.  What  he  said  was  to 
the  effect  that  I  was  wasting  my  life — and  I  am." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  John  went 
on.  "  He  said  that  he  had,  after  educating  me, 
left  me  free  to  choose  my  own  path,  hoping  that 
as  the  last  of  the  name,  I  would  choose  a  worthy 
one.  That  so  far  I  had  drifted  ;  making  my  own 
living,  of  course,  and  paying  my  way — a  gentle 
man  could  do  no  less  ;  but  did  I  intend  to  be  a 
cowboy  and  a  horse-trainer  all  my  life.  It  is  a 
just  question,  for  I  am  nearly  twenty-six  and  no 
choice  made  yet." 

"What  does  he  want  you  to  be?"  Elizabeth 
asked  quietly. 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  Civil  engineering,  or  law,  or  medicine?  " 

"  Medicine  would  finish  me  ;  civil  engineering 
I  do  not  fancy,  and  the  law — would  take  too 
long." 

"  That  does  not  matter,"  Elizabeth  said ;  "  you 


36  JOHN  PA  GET. 

have  plenty  of  patience — I  have  tested  it.  You 
would  make  a  good  lawyer,  I  think." 

John  looked  at  her  a  moment.  "And  you?" 
he  asked. 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  she  answered 
steadily.  "  I  have  loved  you,  that  is  all.  If 
'  everything  is  wrong,  and  has  been  wrong  from 
beginning  to  end/  it  must  stop." 

"  Has  it  not  been  wrong  ?  " 

"  You  must  answer  for  yourself.  For  me,  I 
have  loved  you  truly  and  purely — there  has  been 

no  wrong  in  my  love.  I "  She  stopped 

abruptly 

John  moved  restlessly. 

"Perhaps  a  cup  of  coffee  will  help  your  head," 
Elizabeth  went  on. 

"  And  the  family  ?  " 

"Were  perfectly  quiet  when  I  came  out.  But 
you  need  not  go  into  the  house  unless  you  like  ; 
I  can  bring  it  to  you  in  the  loft." 

"Oh,  no;  one  riot  more  or  less  at  the  end  of 
things  should  not  matter.  Come  on." 

"Was  your  cousin  angry?"  Elizabeth  asked, 
as  she  followed  down  the  path. 

"  No,  but  there  was  an  infinite  scorn  in  his 
voice,  which  he  made  worse  by  trying  to  hide.  I 
felt  more  than  he  meant,  I  suppose,  because  I 
knew  how  true  it  was,  but  I  had  not  realized  it 
fully.  I  know  now,  though,  how  far  down  I  have 
gone." 

It  was  bad  that  he  could  not  see  the  girl's  face 


JOHN  PA  GET.  37 

as  each  word  struck  her.  She  lived  a  long 
time  while  they  walked  through  that  little 
wood. 

John  turned  aside  when  they  reached  the  in- 
closure,  to  unsaddle  his  horse  ;  and  Elizabeth 
went  into  the  house.  Alas,  for  the  quiet  she 
had  left !  They  had  finished  supper  while  she 
and  John  talked,  and  now  the  old  man  had  his 
bottle  beside  him,  while  Manuel  Planco,  Mrs. 
Marsden,  and  the  younger  boy,  Jim,  were  having 
one  of  their  many  squabbles  in  the  next  room. 
George  was  cleaning  a  gun  near  the  fire.  The 
air  was  close,  and  the  mingled  smells  of  food, 
and  whisky,  and  gun-cleaning  were  not  pleasant. 
It  was  no  worse  than  it  had  been  on  the  evening 
when  John  first  came  there,  but  Elizabeth  knew 
that  it  would  seem  infinitely  worse.  Then  it  was 
new  and  strange,  and  there  seemed  to  be  possi 
bilities — now,  he  said,  'One  riot  more  or  less  at 
the  end_of  things  should  not  matter ;'  and  if  it  were 
the  end,  it  did  not  matter.  She  left  the  door 
partly  open  to  freshen  the  air  a  little ;  and  pull 
ing  out  some  coals,  she  put  the  coffee  down  to 
get  hot.  She  straightened  the  table  as  well  as 
she  could  on  such  short  notice,  and  put  the  chairs 
in  their  places. 

"Paget  come?" 

"  Yes,  father." 

The  old  man  laughed  a  little.  "  What  are  you 
good  for,  Bess,"  he  said,  "  if  you  can't  make 
Paget  go  with  us  to-morrow  night.  I  think  we 

443318 


3§  JOHN  PA  GET. 

will  make  a  good  job."  Elizabeth  went  on  with 
her  preparations  silently. 

"  You  think  he  is  too  good  ?  If  he  is  too  good 
for  your  father,  he  ought  to  be  too  good  for  you." 

"  He  is,"  the  girl  answered. 

"  I'll  be  damned  if  he  is  !  do  you  know  who 
you  are  ?  " 

"Your  daughter.  But  do  not  let  us  quarrel ; 
Jack  is  sick  this  evening."  She  spoke  hurriedly, 
for  she  heard  John  coming. 

John  paused  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  and 
the  look  on  his  face  as  he  stood  there  would  have 
hurt  Elizabeth,  if  the  words  he  had  said  outside 
had  not  benumbed  her.  As  it  was,  she  smiled  a 
little  as  she  took  the  coffee-pot  from  the  hearth. 

"  Things  are  not  as  quiet  as  I  represented 
them,"  she  said.  Then,  John  sitting  down,  she 
poured  out  his  coffee.  He  took  it  without  a  word, 
and,  stirring  it  slowly,  said  a  short,  "  No,  thank 
you,"  to  her  offers  of  food.  Having  done  all  that 
she  could,  Elizabeth  took  her  seat  near  George, 
withdrawing  from  John,  as  it  were,  and  the  old 
man  spoke. 

"  I  tell  Bess,  Paget,"  he  said,  "  that  she  ought 
to  make  you  go  with  us  to-morrow  night. 
Manuel  has  been  to  find  out,  and  he  knows 
what  will  be  in  that  stage.  It  will  be  an  easy 
and  a  paying  job,  and  it  is  so  far  away  that  no 
body  will  connect  it  with  us.  We  will  leave  in 
the  morning  before  day,  and,  by  riding  pretty 
hard,  we  can  make  the  place  where  the  road  skirts 


JOHN  PAGET.  39 

the  bayou  by  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  night. 
There  is  good  cover  there,  and  if  George  and 
Jim,  and  Manuel  and  I,  are  willing  to  run  the 
risk,  your  going  will  reduce  the  risk  to  nothing, 
and  will  only  divide  the  spoils  by  one  more." 

Elizabeth  watched  John  closely.  Somehow,  he 
seemed  to  have  drifted  so  far  away  from  her 
already  that  she  could  look  at  him  with  critical 
eyes.  But  he  neither  looked  up  nor  answered. 

"  It  will  surely  pay  you  better,"  the  old  man 
went  on,  "  than  breaking  old  Calavaros'  horses ; 
and  besides,  to  do  the  one,  you  need  not  give  up 
the  other.  These  little  expeditions  come  in  very 
well  in  idle  times.  Manuel  there,"  looking  up  to 
where  Manuel  stood  in  the  doorway  between  the 
rooms,  "  is  making  quite  a  fortune.  And  he 
takes  precious  good  care  to  get  behind  me  or 
George  when  the  fight  is  on  ;  but,  as  he  does  all 
the  sneaking  and  lying  beforehand,  in  order  to 
find  out  the  valuable  stage-loads,  he  is  entitled  to 
his  share.  I  could  not  do  that  part,  but  the  rest 
of  it  is  fun.  Will  you  go  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Damn  it,  then,  you  needn't, "  the  old  man 
answered  sharply,  as  John,  rising  from  the  table, 
pushed  back  his  chair  roughly. 

"  He  too  good,"  Manuel  said,  "  too  good.  What 
you  think,  Mees  Eleesabet — what  think  the  loft — 
yah  !"  Something  bright  glittered  in  John's  hand 
that  Elizabeth  clung  to  as  he  sprang  toward 
Manuel. 


40  JOHN  FACET. 

"  George  !  "  she  cried,  as  John  tried  to  fling 
her  off ;  and  John  was  pinioned  from  be 
hind. 

"  No  murder  here,  Paget,"  George  said  quietly, 
as  John,  struggling  like  a  madman,  tried  to  free 
himself.  "  Get  out  of  here,  Manuel — you  fool !  " 
George  went  on.  But  Manuel  was  just  drunk 
enough  to  be  reckless,  and  stood  laughing  softly 
until  Jim,  pushing  him  aside,  came  to  George's 
assistance. 

"  Tie  him,"  Elizabeth  said,  seeing  that  the 
struggle  was  going  against  her  brothers.  "  Here  is 
a  lariat,"  bringing  it  quickly,  while  John  swore 
that,  if  they  tied  him,  he  would  kill  them  all. 
Nevertheless,  the  boys  managed  to  hold  him 
while  the  old  man  tied  him  skillfully. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  or  elevating  sensation 
that  John  experienced  as  he  lay  helpless  on  the 
floor;  and  in  the  mad  rage  that  possessed  him  he 
swore  that  he  would  never  forgive  this  insult  and 
would  someday  murder  Manuel.  But  Manuel's 
time  had  come  ;  for  George,  who  loathed  him,  now 
collared  him,  and  reaching  down  a  cowhide  as  he 
went,  dragged  him  outside.  "  Cur"  was  the  mild 
est  epithet  that  George  used  as  he  flogged  the 
creature,  and  the  blows  and  curses  rained  down 
relentlessly  until  the  old  man,  remembering  the 
next  day's  work,  went  out  and  stopped  it.  Then 
Manuel  crept  away. 

Presently  Elizabeth  kneeled  down  by  John, 
and  he  felt  the  cords  loosening.  "  George  has 


JOHN  PA  GET.  41 

beaten  Manuel,  and  sent  him  away,"  she  said. 
"Will  you  come?  " 

John  rose  and  went  in  silence  to  the  loft,  where 
Elizabeth  followed  with  a  bucket  of  water.  She 
put  it  down,  with  some  clean  towels,  near  the  box 
that  held  the  basin. 

"  It  would  have  been  murder,  Jack,"  she  said. 
"  I  could  not  let  you  do  it ;  that  would  have  been 
worse  than  all  the  rest."  Then,  without  further 
speech,  she  left  him,  closing  the  door  after  her. 

Wrapped  in  a  serape  she  seated  herself  on  the 
lowest  round  of  the  ladder.  John  thought  that 
she  would  hold  him.  He  seemed  to  have 
wakened  suddenly  to  such  a  loathing  of  himself ; 
and  he  thought  that  she  would  hold  him  !  She 
felt  a  great  pity  for  him.  She  knew,  for  she  knew 
him  better  than  he  knew  himself,  that  to  a  man 
of  his  temperament  all  that  he  had  done  was 
irrevocable,  but  he  did  not  realize  this,  and  she 
would  not  tell  him.  She  would  let  him  think 
that  it  could  all  be  wiped  out  quite  easily ;  she 
would  let  him  go  without  one  remonstrance. 
This  would  do  until  he  could  take  a  fresh  grasp 
on  life ;  by  that  time  she  might  be  dead  and  he 
be  really  free. 

"  He  has  loved  me — yes,  he  has  loved  me." 
She  whispered  it  over  and  over.  "  He  loved  me 
once — once !  " 

The  gray  sky  was  starless,  and  the  steady  wind 
blew  a  little  stronger  and  a  little  colder  each 
hour.  By  dawn  it  would  be  very  cold.  She 


42  JOHN  PA  GET. 

must  get  John  into  Corpus,  for  she  felt  sure  that 
he  was  going  to  be  ill,  and  she  could  not  make 
him  comfortable.  Besides,  in  his  present  state  of 
self-abasement,  the  further  humiliation  of  being 
found  in  such  a  place  by  the  physician  would  be 
death  to  him  almost. 

Her  face  burnt  in  the  darkness.  For  some 
time  she  had  seen  that  John  was  growing  rest 
ive,  but  she  had  not  said  anything  one  way 
or  another.  She  had  been  afraid  of  losing 
him.  Now  she  called  herself  a  mean-spirited 
coward. 

She  heard  a  twig  snap.  She  did  not  move,  but 
she  listened  intently.  Something  was  moving 
very  cautiously,  but  moving,  and  in  her  direc 
tion. 

Presently  a  shadow  stole  from  out  the  chapar 
ral,  pausing  to  make  observations,  then  came  for 
ward  quickly. 

"  Manuel ! "  she  said,  rising,  and  the  figure 
stopped.  "  Go  and  make  the  fire  in  the  house — 
go  quickly."  Her  voice  was  very  low,  but  it  did 
not  quiver.  "  Go  ;  one  shot  will  kill  you  and 
rouse  everybody." 

There  was  a  second's  pause,  then  with  a  low 
oath  the  figure  turned,  muttering  to  himself,  "  To 
night  he  make  you  stay  outside — dog  to  him 

now "  and  Elizabeth  drew  a  long  breath ; 

she  went  over  to  one  of  the  cabins  and  roused 
her  brothers. 

"  It  is  time  to  get  up,"  she  said,  "  and  you  had 


JOHN1  FACET.  43 

better  get  Manuel  away  quickly."  Then  she 
went  back  to  her  watch  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder. 
It  would  be  an  easy  thing  for  Manuel  to  slip  up 
to  the  loft  and  stab  John. 

When  the  party  was  gone  she  went  into  the 
house  and  made  fresh  coffee;  then,  after  eating 
her  breakfast,  she  fed  and  saddled  John's  horse 
and  her  own.  It  was  bright  enough  now  to  be 
called  day,  and  she  went  up  to  rouse  John. 
She  felt  instantly  that  he  had  fever,  and  became 
more  anxious  than  ever  to  get  him  into  town. 
It  would  be  almost  a  day's  journey,  going  at  the 
pace  a  sick  man  would  have  to  ride,  and  they 
must  start  at  once. 

John  did  not  want  to  go — did  not  want  to 
move  at  all  until  she  bathed  his  face,  and  per 
suaded  him  to  drink  a  cup  of  coffee  into  which 
she  had  put  some  whisky. 

"I  will  ride  with  you  to  the  edge  of  the  town," 
she  said.  "  It  will  be  better  for  you  ;  indeed  it 
will  be,  Jack." 

It  took  some  time  to  persuade  him,  but  at  last 
they  started.  The  wind  that  now  was  blowing 
cold  revived  John  somewhat,  and  they  rode  more 
rapidly  than  Elizabeth  had  ventured  to  hope; 
still  it  was  late  in  the  day  when  they  reached  the 
town. 

"  Good-by,  Jack,"  she  said,  drawing  rein  be 
hind  a  clump  of  huisachie  trees  within  a  stone's- 
throw  of  Mr.  Wilton's  house,  "  remember,  you 
are  free  ;  good-by." 


44  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  John  an 
swered.  "  I  have  never  gone  to  your  father's 
house  against  my  will.  But  my  head  aches  too 
much  to  talk — good-by."  He  held  the  hand  she 
extended,  for  a  second,  then  rode  up  to  the  gate 
of  his  house. 


III. 

"  Stand  still,  fond  fettered  wretch  !  while  Memory's  art 
Parades  the  past  before  thy  face,  and  lures 
Thy  spirit  to  her  passionate  portraitures  : 
Till  the  tempestuous  flood  gates,  flung  apart, 
Flood  with  wild  will  the  hollows  of  thy  heart, 

And  thy  heart  rends  thee,  and  thy  body  endures." 

"  A  YOUNG  woman  is  here,  sir."  Old  Angela 
•L\  stood  outside  Mr.  Wilton's  study  door;  a 
brown,  shriveled,  little  old  woman  with  great 
gold  hoops  in  her  ears,  and  a  scarlet  cloth  about 
her  head.  These  things  struck  one  first ;  then 
the  pathos  in  her  soft  black  eyes  made  one 
wonder  if  her  heart  were  as  old  as  her  body 
looked,  for  her  eyes  were  bedded  in  wrinkles,  and 
her  figure  was  much  bowed. 

Mr.  Wilton  came  out  quickly.  "  Do  you  know 
her,  Angela  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  "She  is 
young,  she  is  strong,"  she  answered,  "  that  is  all 
I  know.  She  waits  in  the  kitchen." 

"You  are  sure  you  can  get  no  man,  Angela, 
who  could  nurse?  " 

"  Those  who  will  take  money  are  low — are 
dirty  and  will  drink,  and  you  will  have  none  ex 
cept  you  pay  them.  You  give  kindness,  but  you 
will  not  take  it.  I  have  tried  for  three  days. 

45 


46  JOHN  FACET. 

This  woman  is  clean,  and  young,  and  strong,  and 
she  will  take  the  money." 

"  Send  her  here,  then." 

And  the  old  woman  disappeared  down  the  hall. 

Mr.  Wilton,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him, 
and  his  head  bowed,  was  thinking  very  deeply. 
He  did  not  hear  the  light  steps,  and  started 
when  a  low,  clear  voice  said,  "I  am  here,  Mr. 
Wilton." 

He  looked  at  the  tall,  slight  girl  who  stood  be 
side  him,  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Elizabeth  Clare  Marsdeh." 

"  Marsden  ?  " 

"  My  father  is  Reginald  Marsden,  an  English 
man,  and  lives  many  miles  out  on  the  prairie.  My 
brothers  are  cowboys.  Mr.  Paget  has  been  very 
good  to  them,  and  has  made  them  better  men. 
When  I  heard  that  you  needed  help  to  nurse  him, 
I  came.  I  know  a  good  deal  about  fever." 

"  You  look  very  young." 

"  I  am  twenty  by  the  count  of  years,  but  my 
life  has  been  hard  and  rough  ;  full  of  dangers 
and  experience,  and  I  have  been  a  woman  a  long 
time;  you  may  trust  me  to  do  my  duty,  and 
nothing  but  my  duty.  .  I  can  give  you  no  ref 
erences,  however,  for  I  know  no  one  in  the  town. 
I  have  kept  away  from  the  people — I  do  not  like 
them." 

"  I  have  seen  you  in  church." 

"Yes.     My  father  was  a  gentleman  once,  and 


JOHN  PA  GET.  47 

my  mother  was  a  lady,  brought  up  in  the  Church 
of  England.  She  died  when  I  was  born.  I  have 
her  prayer-book,  and  I  go  to  church  because  I 
think  she  would  like  it  if  she  were  here.  I  have 
brought  you  one  of  my  father's  books,  the  only 
proof  I  have  of  my  story  " — handing  him  a  much 
worn,  but  handsomely  bound  volume.  "  His 
name  is  in  it,  and  his  coat-of-arms.  He  was  dis 
missed  from  the  English  army,  and  disinherited. 
He  forged  the  name  of  a  brother  officer.  Now 
I  have  told  you  all.  I  would  rather  nurse  Mr. 
Paget  because  I  am  grateful  for  his  kindness  to 
my  brothers,  but  if,  as  your  servant  says,  you  will 
not  permit  this,  I  will  take  the  money." 

"  You  need  not  take  the  money,  Miss  Marsden." 

"  Call  me  Clare,  if  you  please." 

"As  you  will,"  Mr.  Wilton  answered,  closing 
the  book  he  had  been  examining;  "and  now  I 
will  take  you  to  my  cousin's  room." 

He  had  listened  to  John's  ravings ;  they  were 
incoherent  and  unconnected,  but  "Elizabeth — 
Elizabeth — Elizabeth,"  came  with  monotonous 
certainty  at  the  end  of  every  storm  of  words. 
Was  this  the  Elizabeth?  Her  request  to  be 
called  Clare  made  him  almost  sure. 

Old  Angela  sat  by  the  bed  where  the  young 
man  lay;  his  eyes  brilliant,  his  lips  parched,  his 
tremulous  fingers  picking,  picking,  always  pick 
ing  at  the  coverlid.  He  did  not  see  them,  and 
Elizabeth,  approaching  from  behind,  laid  her 
hand  on  his  forehead. 


48  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"Tie  me — tie  me!  how  dare  you!"  he  mut 
tered  ;  then  his  voice  sank  into  a  whisper,  while 
he  struggled  as  if  to  free  his  wrists. 

"You  are  not  tied,"  Elizabeth  said  quietly; 
"  see,  I  have  loosed  you."  At  her  words  a  per 
fect  stillness  fell,  and  the  sick  man  seemed  to  be 
listening  for  her  voice  again. 

"  You  may  go,  Angela,"  Mr.  Wilton  whis 
pered  ;  "  Clare  will  take  charge  of  things  now," 
and  the  old  woman  went  away. 

Elizabeth  turned  to  him.  "  What  are  the 
doctor's  directions?  "  she  asked. 

Mr.  Wilton  handed  her  a  sheet  of  paper,  then 
showed  her  where  everything  was. 

"  Elizabeth,  Elizabeth  !  "  John  called  ;  but  the 
girl  did  not  turn  from  reading  the  paper. 

"  If  you  want  me,"  Mr.  Wilton  went  on, 
"  I  am  in  the  room  just  below  ;  strike  on  the 
floor." 

"Yes.  And  when  does  the  doctor  come 
again  ?  " 

"At  nine  this  evening.     Do  you  know  him?" 

"  No  ;  we  are  our  own  physicians." 

"  Elizabeth !"  John  said  again,  but  again  she 
did  not  answer. 

"  Does  the  doctor  have  any  hope  ?  " 

Mr.  Wilton  shook  his  head.  "  He  has  not  said 
so,  but  I  think  he  fears  the  worst." 

"  Elizabeth  !  "  This  time  she  turned  and  laid 
her  hand  on  John's  that  were  so  restless,  and 
looked  into  his  eyes  that  were  so  bright,  and  yet 


JOHN  PA  GET.  49 

so  weary.  "  All  that  I  have  done  has  been  of 
my  own  free  will,"  he  said. 

"  And  all  the  future  shall  be  according  to  your 
will,"  she  answered. 

"And  I  am  not  tied?" 

"No." 

"Then  I  will  be  quiet — I  will  try."  He  lay 
still  after  this,  and  Elizabeth  kept  her  hand  on 
his.  When  Mr.  Wilton  left  the  room,  she  bent 
over  John — bent  low  until  her  cheek  touched  his 
forehead. 

"  Jack,"  she  whispered,  "  Jack,  you  know  me — 
you  are  glad  to  see  me  ?  "  But  his  mind  had 
slipped  away,  and  he  looked  at  her  vacantly. 

For  days  they  fought  death.  Sometimes  John 
was  raving,  sometimes  in  a  stupor,  and,  though 
never  seeming  to  know  Elizabeth,  he  was  always 
submissive  to  her  word  or  touch.  At  last  the 
crisis  came,  and  he  fell  asleep.  The  doctor  said 
that  he  would  watch  himself  for  his  waking,  and 
Elizabeth  went  downstairs.  She  met  Mr.  Wil 
ton  in  the  hall,  and  asked  if  she  might  speak  with 
him  in  his  study. 

"  If  Mr.  Paget  wakes  up  himself,"  she  said,  "  I 
will  go  without  seeing  him  again,  for  his  recov 
ery  will  then  be  sure.  If  not,  I  will  stay  until 
the  end.  But  in  view  of  my  going,  I  want  to  ask 
a  promise  of  you.  It  is  that  you  will  never  tell 
Mr.  Paget  that  I  have  been  here,  and  never  ask 
him  any  questions  concerning  me  or  mine.  If 
he  tells  you  anything  of  his  past  life  that  is  in 


5°  JOHN  PA  GET. 

any  way  connected  with  us,  do  not  let  him  know 
even  then  that  I  have  been  here.  It  is  for  his 
good  that  I  ask  this,  and  you  will  believe  me 
when  I  tell  you  that  you  will  do  well  to  heed  this 
promise." 

"  I  promise." 

"And  I  am  going  to  ask  something  else  of 
you,"  Elizabeth  went  on.  "  Will  you  lend  me 
something  to  read  that  will  make  me  a  better 
woman?  I  am  weary  with  the  struggle  of  my 
life.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  I  must  let  go  and 
drift.  Life  is  not  so  glad  a  thing  to  me  that  I 
can  return  thanks  for  my  '  creation  and  preserva 
tion.'  I  am  not  needed  anywhere,  and  I  am 
lonely." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then  Mr.  Wil 
ton,  walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  little  room, 
with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him  and  his  head 
bent,  spoke,  almost  as  if  to  himself. 

"It  helps  us  sometimes,"  he  said,  "to  know 
that  we  have  helped  another.  That  the  character 
we  have  been  building  for  years,  through  pain 
and  hindrances,  has  reached  a  point  where  it 
strengthens  others  without  knowing  it — without 
effort.  You  have  helped  me.  You  have  made 
me  see  in  a  different  light  a  woman  who  long 
ago  trod  on  my  life."  He  stopped  and  held  out 
his  hand.  "  You  are  sure  that  what  you  ask  is 
best  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure,"  and  Elizabeth  put  her  hand  in 
his.  "What  is  really  mine  will  come  to  me ;  I 


JOHN  PAGET.  51 

will  wait.  About  the  books.  Outside  your  back 
gate  there  is  a  large  huisachie  tree,  hollow,  sur 
rounded  by  bushes.  Every  fortnight,  beginning 
with  next  Monday,  I  will  come  there  and  take 
what  I  find,  and  leave  what  I  have  finished. 
Now,  I  will  go  and  listen  outside  his  door  until 
he  wakes.  Put  the  book  you  will  lend  me  to-day 
on  the  hall  table,  so  that,  if  I  go,  I  can  find  it.  I 
may  not  see  you  again.  Good-by." 

"  Good-by.     God  bless  you,  child." 

She  went  upstairs  and  into  the  sick  room, 
where  she  stood  for  a  moment  looking  down  on 
John,  then  took  up  her  position  just  outside  the 
door.  After  a  while— a  long  while — she  heard  a 
movement  and  a  sigh.  She  held  her  breath  ; 
then  a  weak  voice  asked  : 

"  Have  I  been  very  ill  ?  " 

She  did  not  wait  for  the  answer.  She  found 
the  book  on  the  hall  table,  and  her  small  bundle 
where  she  had  placed  it  at  the  back  door.  She 
did  not  say  farewell  to  old  Angela,  even,  but 
took  her  way  through  the  back  gate  out  to  the 
prairie. 

"  What  is  really  mine  will  come  to  me,"  Eliza 
beth  had  said ;  but  as  far  as  could  be  seen, 
nothing  came.  She  had  answered  the  family 
jeers  concerning  John  by  silence,  until  about  six 
weeks  after  John's  recovery,  when  the  fact  became 
known  that  John  Paget  had  given  up  his  old  life 
entirely,  and  was  studying  for  the  ministry. 


5^  JOHN  PA  GET. 

Then,  out  at  Marsden's  things  threatened  to 
become  serious. 

"  Paget  preaching !  "  the  old  man  roared.  "  I'll 
go  preach  myself,  Bess ;  and  you  are  not  good 
enough  for  him  now  ?  I'll  break  every  bone  in 
his  hypocritical  body — damn  him  !  " 

Elizabeth  laughed  softly.  "  It  does  seem 
rather  funny,"  she  said ;  "  but  you  need  not 
trouble  him,  nor  yourself,  father,  nor  be  so  quick 
to  take  it  for  granted  that  it  is  his  fault  that  he 
does  not  come  here  any  more.  It  may  be  my 
doing,  you  know." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  "  You 
are  sure  about  it?"  he  said.  "We  will  put  a 
bullet  in  him  any  time  you  say  so." 

"  I  do  not  say  so.  I  do  not  want  him  shot. 
I  could  do  it  myself  if  I  wanted  it  done,  and  I 
would." 

"  Good  for  you !  "  was  Jim's  comment,  but 
George  looked  at  her  earnestly.  "  I  should  hate 
to  kill  Paget,  sister,"  he  said,  "  and  so  would  you." 

"  Of  course  I  would,  especially  as  there  is  no 
need.  I  nursed  him  when  he  was  ill,  to  pay  off 
all  old  scores,  and  now  we  are  quits.  Jack  is  a 
good  fellow;  he  could  make  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  for  us  if  he  chose  to  talk." 

"  He  would  be  sure  to  get  his  bullet  then,  and 
he  knows  it,"  Mr.  Marsden  said. 

"  If  he  wanted  to  talk  he  would  not  stop  for 
fear,  and  you  know  it.  He  keeps  silent  simply 
because  he  is  a  gentleman,  and  has  accepted  our 


JOHN  PA  GET.  53 

hospitality,  such  as  it  is.  For  me,  I  am  surprised 
that  he  came  here  so  much ;  we  are  not  very 
desirable  acquaintances.  I  wonder  that  he  did 
not  loathe  us  and  our  life  long  ago." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  thoughtfully. 
"  You  have  never  known  any  other  life,"  he  said. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  loathing  this?  " 

"  My  blood  has  known  a  better  life,"  she 
answered,  "  and  I  am  thankful  that  Jack  Paget 
has  turned  from  this  sort  of  existence  while  he  is 
still  young  enough  to  choose  another." 

"  It  is  your  own  business,"  her  father  said  at 
last ;  "  do  as  you  please.  I  am  sorry  you  loathe 
us,  though  ;  I  might  have  sent  you  across  the 
water  to  a  respectable  life  when  you  were  a  baby, 
but  you  were  all  I  had — and — well,  I  loved  you." 

Elizabeth  laid  her  cheek  against  his  hand. 

From  that  day  the  jeers  ceased,  and  John 
Paget  seemed  to  drop  out  of  the  life  and  memory 
of  Marsden's. 

For  three  years  neither  John  nor  Mr.  Wilton 
had  seen  Elizabeth.  If  she  came  to  church  she 
managed  to  sit  where  she  would  be  hidden  from 
them.  But  in  all  that  time  she  had  not  failed 
once  to  go  to  the  huisachie  grove  for  her  books. 
Sometimes  there  would  be  a  .note  from  Mr. 
Wilton — a  few  kind  words,  but  she  never  answered 
them. 

One  afternoon  toward  dusk  she  went  to  get 
her  books;  she  heard  voices  in  Mr.  Wilton's 
garden,  and  listened.  John's  she  recognized,  but 


54  JOHN  PA  GET. 

a  new  voice,  and  a  woman's  voice,  answered  him. 
It  was  a  short  way  from  the  shadow  of  the 
huisachie  grove  to  the  shadow  of  the  garden 
hedge,  and  in  the  gathering  dusk  it  was  easily 
crossed  without  detection. 

With  one  arm  resting  on  the  low  branch  of 
a  fig  tree,  John  stood  looking  down  on  a  girl 
swinging  in  the  hammock.  He  addressed  her  as 
"  My  dear  child,"  once  or  twice,  then  he  called  her 
Beatrice,  and  Elizabeth  knew  that  she  was  Mr. 
Wilton's  daughter  come  home  from  the  Convent. 
She  went  back  to  the  huisachie  grove  and  got 
the  books,  then  walked  out  to  the  chaparral 
where  her  horse  was  tied.  It  was  well  that  he 
was  fresh,  for  she  put  him  at  his  best  speed  and 
did  not  let  him  flag  for  a  moment  until  she 
reached  home. 

Once  more  she  kept  a  long  night's  vigil  seated 
on  the  lowest  round  of  the  ladder  to  the  loft, 
where  she  had  watched  three  years  before.  To 
night  the  moon  was  full — the  ragged  shadows 
were  clear  cut  and  black  as  ink,  and  the  wind  was 
a  low  whisper.  In  the  other  vigil  the  sky  had 
been  gray,  and  the  wind  had  been  wild.  How 
long  ago  it  seemed  !  In  what  a  fool's  paradise 
she  had  lived  while  John  Paget  had  loved  her. 
How  had  she  dreamed,  even,  that  that  life  could 
continue? 

And  yet  she  had  not  been  all  to  blame  in 
grasping  whatever  she  could  get  of  happiness. 
She  had  been  so  lonely. 


JOHN  FACET.  55 

Once  she  had  seen  a  half-starved  dog  find  a 
bone  ;  an  old,  dry  bone  it  looked,  but  the  poor 
beast  seized  it  hungrily.  Suddenly  he  dropped 
it  and  fled,  howling  piteously.  Curiosity  made 
her  look  closely,  and  she  found  that  thQ  bone 
was  filled  with  small  red  ants. 

She  laughed  a  little  at  her  parable. 

She  had  thought  that  in  the  three  years  just 
gone  she  had  learned  what  suffering  meant,  but 
now  the  lesson  seemed  just  begun.  She  shut  her 
eyes  and  saw  her  lover — the  curve  of  his  throat, 
the  poise  of  his  head,  the  movement  of  his  hands, 
so  slim  and  tapering,  so  firm  of  grasp.  And  who 
so  tall  and  straight  as  he,  and  who  could  ride 
or  shoot  so  well?  How  brilliant  and  fearless 
were  his  eyes — how  deep  and  dreamy  !  And  the 
tones  of  his  voice — how  she  knew  them  every  one ! 

He  had  loved  her — yes,  he  had  loved  her. 
And  now  it  was  dead. 

She  had  thought  some  bitter  things  when  she 
saw  John  Paget  ordained  deacon,  but  she  had 
fought  against  them,  and  had  reasoned  with  her 
self  until  she  could  see  things  from  John's  stand 
point. 

He  had  gone  down  into  the  shadow  of  death, 
and  life  had  come  to  seem  a  different  thing. 
He  had  lived  for  weeks  with  no  influence  near 
him  but  Mr.  Wilton's,  in  the  light  of  whose  pure 
life  John's  past  must,  indeed,  seem  dark  and 
loathsome.  She  was  a  part  of  that  past — she 
was  connected  irretrievably  with  all  that  would 


56  JOHN  PA  GET. 

make  him  miserable  for  years.  If  she  had  let 
him  murder  Manuel,  he  would  have  been  com 
mitted  to  outlaw  life.  If  she  had  chosen  to 
keep  him  through  his  illness,  he  could  not  have 
withdrawn  then.  If  she  had  chosen  to  stay  by 
him  in  life  own  home,  Mr.  Wilton  would  have 
thought  her  justifiable.  She  could  have  held  him, 
but  she  had  not  fallen  low  enough  for  that ! 

Now,  how  could  she  live  ?  To  let  him  go  had 
been  agony — to  yield  him  to  another  was  tor 
ture  unspeakable.  Perhaps,  after  a  little  while, 
the  pain  would  destroy  itself ;  there  was  a  limit 
to  pain. 

For  the  next  fortnight  she  did  not  go  near  the 
town  ;  her  rides  were  all  in  the  opposite  direc 
tion,  and  she  went  on  some  wild  expeditions 
with  her  brothers ;  a  thing  she  had  begun  to  do 
since  John's  desertion. 

At  the  end  of  the  two  weeks  she  rode  to  the 
huisachie'grove  early  in  the  morning  and  deposited 
the  books.  This  time  she  left  an  unsigned  note 
saying  that  she  would  not  come  again,  and 
thanking  Mr.  Wilton  for  his  past  kindness. 

That  evening  Mr.  Wilton  asked  John  if  he 
knew  where  the  Marsdens  lived.  John  said  yes, 
but  that  there  were  no  landmarks  by  which  one 
could  be  directed  to  the  place.  This  was  all. 
He  asked  no  questions  in  return,  and  gave  no 
opening  for  further  explanation,  and  Mr.  Wilton, 
remembering  his  promise  to  Elizabeth,  did  not 
push  his  inquiries.  But  he  asked  in  the  town, 


JOHN  FACET.  57 

first  one  person  and  then  another,  something  of 
the  Marsdens,  intimating,  as  his  reason,  that  the 
girl  came  to  church.  No  one  seemed  to  know 
anything  at  all  about  the  girl,  but  all  spoke  of 
the  family  as  low  and  bad — hopelessly  bad ; 
generally  adding  that  they  had  been  so  glad 
when  young  Paget  dropped  the  acquaintance. 

After  this  Elizabeth  had  no  further  communi 
cation  with  Mr.  Wilton,  but  she  kept  an  unfail 
ing  watch  on  John,  and  her  reward  was  the 
certainty  that  he  loved  his  cousin,  the  little 
Beatrice.  She  watched  him  in  his  walks  and  in 
his  rides  with  his  cousin,  hiding  skillfully,  and 
hearing  his  talk  when  he  thought  nobody  near 
but  Beatrice.  Such  innocent  talk  as  it  was ! 
Sometimes  her  eyes  would  fill  with  tears  for  the 
very  simplicity  of  it.  How  pure  the  girl  was ! 
So  she  herself  should  have  been,  so  it  was  her 
right  to  be,  and  not  the  hardened,  life-tired, 
deserted  thing  she  was.  And  John — how  really 
true  John  was  at  heart.  At  night,  through  the 
open  windows,  she  watched  him  busy  with  his 
books,  and  she  would  see  him  stop,  when  alone, 
and  a  cloud  come  over  his  face.  She  knew  what 
that  meant.  Dressed  as  a  boy,  both  for  dis 
guise  and  protection,  she  dogged  him  day  and 
night.  Her  people  gave  up  expecting  her  at  any 
given  time,  and  it  was  very  seldom  now  that  she 
would  go  on  expeditions  with  her  brothers  and 
father. 

The   months   went   by  ;  then,  before  the  first 


58  JOHN  FACET. 

year  of  Beatrice  Wilton's  life  at  home  was  past, 
Elizabeth  heard  of  the  illness  of  the  rector. 
It  was  a  grief  to  her.  She  went  constantly  to 
listen  and  watch  for  news  of  him,  until  her  own 
father  was  brought  home  badly  injured,  and  her 
time  and  strength  had  to  be  spent  on  him. 

Then  the  news  came  of  Mr.  Wilton's  death. 
Once  more  Elizabeth  donned  her  disguise  and 
went  to  the  rectory.  The  moon  was  full  and 
brilliant,  and  the  shadows  were  black.  Elizabeth, 
keeping  close  to  the  hedge,  drew  very  near  to 
the  open  windows  of  the  study.  The  lamp  was 
dim,  but  the  moonlight  pouring  in,  she  could  see 
the  coffin  on  the  bier,  and  John  sitting  close  to 
the  window,  looking  out  over  the  water. 

How  motionless  he  was — how  broken-hearted 
his  expression.  If  she  went  straight  up  to  him 
and  took  his  hand,  would  he  send  her  away? 
would  he  look  at  her  with  that  loathing  she  had 
thought  so  much  about  ?  If  she  told  him  she  had 
come  only  as  a  friend,  asking  nothing — if  she 
told  him  how  she  had  learned  to  love  and  rev 
erence  the  dead  man,  would  he  look  at  her  still 
with  that  loathing? 

How  she  loved  him — how  she  loved  him,  sit 
ting  there  so  still  and  sad !  How  she  loved  him  ! 
Would  anyone  in  all  the  world  love  him  as  she 
had  done — as  she  did  ? 

John  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  after  him. 
She  heard  doors  shutting  and  keys  turning. 
He  was  locking  the  house  for  the  night;  he 


JOHN  PA  GET.  59 

would  not  be  back  for  a  little  while  yet,  and  if  he 
should  come  on  her  suddenly  she  would  take 
the  consequences. 

She  moved  swiftly  toward  the  house;  to  step  in 
at  the  low  window  was  the  work  of  a  second,  and 
she  stood  by  the  open  coffin. 

"Death  was  sweet  to  you,"  she  said,  laying  her 
hand  on  the  hands  of  the  dead  man.  "  It  is  best 
to  be  good  ;  that  is  what  your  face  says.  I  know 
it,  and  I  will  try.  Your  life  had  been  trodden  on 
too.  You  were  lonely  yourself,  so  you  understood 
me.  If  I  could  have  confessed,  you  would  have 
absolved  me,  but  it  was  Jack's  story  too.  You 
know  all  my  story  now.  You  lived  for  others. 
I  will  try — I  promise  you.  Good-by.  Wherever 
you  are,  pray  for  me."  There  was  a  movement 
in  the  room  above.  Her  whisper  stopped,  and 
she  listened.  A  step,  and  it  was  not  John's;  no 
one  else  must  find  her  here. 

"  Good-by — pray  for  me" — and  she  stepped 
from  the  window.  From  under  the  shadow  of 
the  hedge  she  watched. 

The  door  opened  and  a  woman,  a  stranger, 
tall,  slender,  beautiful,  came  in.  She  did  not 
look  at  the  coffin  ;  she  looked  at  the  bookshelves, 
at  the  floor,  at  the  desk,  out  of  the  window,  any 
where  but  at  the  coffin.  She  came  to  the  window 
and  stood  there  as  if  thinking,  and  Elizabeth  was 
so  near  that  she  could  almost  smell  the  huisachie 
flowers  the  stranger  held. 

She  was  not  afraid  of  death,  or  she  would  not 


to  JOHN  PA  GET. 

stay  in  that  room  alone  ;  she  must  have  some 
deeper  feeling.  Yet  love  would  go  straight  to 
the  coffin.  Was  she  the  woman  who  had  "trod 
on  the  life"  of  the  man  lying  dead  behind  her? 
Foolish  woman!  She  need  not  be  reluctant  to 
look ;  she  would  find  only  peace  and  gladness. 
She  had  no  more  power  to  hurt  him.  She  was 
going  to  the  coffin  now.  Ah,  it  hurt  her  !  How 
still  she  was — how  deathly  white!  What  pain, 
— what  dreadful  pain  was  on  her  face!  Poor 
thing !  The  stranger  went  away,  then  John 
came  again.  He  lowered  the  lamp,  and  took  his 
seat  by  the  window  as  before.  He  was  going  to 
watch  ;  so  would  she ;  they  would  keep  this  vigil 
together. 

The  night  waxed  and  waned.  Through  the 
long,  slow  hours  the  moonlit  waters  of  the  gulf 
washed  back  and  forth  on  the  glittering  sands ; 
the  flowers  flung  out  their  perfume  to  the  warm 
wind,  and  the  woman  sitting  under  the  hedge  in 
the  darkness  looked  and  looked  as  if  her  eyes 
would  never  get  their  fill. 

Hovering  about  the  next  day,  she  learned  that 
the  strange  woman  whom  she  had  seen  would  take 
Beatrice  Wilton  away,  and  that  John  would  go  too. 

Then  Elizabeth  waited  at  home.  Surely  John 
would  not  go  without  some  last  word  to  her. 
But  he  did  not  come  ;  and  on  the  day  of  his  de 
parture,  disguised,  with  a  sombrero  pulled  well 
down  over  her  face,  and  a  serape  hiding  her  figure, 
she  rode  to  the  railway  station. 


JOHN  FACET.  6 1 

She  stood  quite  close  to  John  in  the  crowd ; 
she  relieved  the  party  of  their  bags  and  wraps  ; 
she  followed  them  into  the  train  and  stowed  the 
things  away.  When  she  finished  John  gave  her 
a  half-dollar,  but  he  did  not  look  to  see  who  it 
was  that  had  helped  him. 

She  stood  outside  on  the  railway  platform,  and 
as  the  train  moved  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  edge 
of  the  open  window.  She  said  softly,  "  Good- 
by,  Jack."  Low  as  it  was  he  heard  it,  and  the 
color  left  his  face. 


IV. 

"  Is  all  our  fire  of  shipwreck  wood 

Oak  and  pine  ? 

Oh,  for  the  ills  half  understood, 
The  dim  dead  woe 
Long  ago." 

"\7OUR  letter  has  made  you  grave,  mother." 
1     Mrs.   Van    Kuyster  looked   up  in  a  startled 
way  from  where  she  sat  behind  the  glittering  tea- 
urn. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  slowly;  "it  is  from  John, 
your  brother." 

"And  the  contents?  " 

"  Carter  Wilton  is  dying." 

"Dying!"  Claude  repeated,  his  blue  eyes 
clouding. 

"  Yes,  and  you  must  get  a  ticket  for  me,"  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  went  on  as  she  rose — "a  ticket  to 
San  Antonio." 

"  Have  they  sent  for  you  ?  " 

"Yes.  Carter  is  the  last  who  belongs  to  me. 
He  asks  me  to  take  his  daughter.  He  married 
out  there — a  Spanish  girl.  I  think  we  should  have 
written  to  each  other  in  all  these  years ;  but  Car 
ter  thought  not.  Your  brother  John  will  come 
too.  Get  one  ticket,  Claude ;  I  prefer  to  go 
alone,  and  shall  leave  to-night." 

62 


JOHN  PA  GET.  63 

"You  will  not  need  me,  then?  " 

"  No.  But  remember  they  live  in  Corpus 
Christi  " — looking  at  the  letter.  "  Perhaps  you 
can  get  a  ticket  farther  than  San  Antonio.  Find 
out  all  about  it." 

"  And  all  your  engagements  for  the  next 
month?" 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  frowned.  ",You  will  have 
to  make  my  excuses.  Write  to  the  Slaters  at 
once  ;  their  dinner  is  this  evening." 

"  And  your  lunch  on  Thursday  ?  "  Claude  went 
on  ;  "I  shall  have  to  hire  a  secretary." 

"  Write  to  the  Slaters,  and  get  my  ticket," 
Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  answered,  "  then  you  will  find 
on  the  study  table  a  list  of  commissions,"  and 
she  left  the  room. 

"  The  highest  civilization  gives  way  some- 
times,"  Claude  soliloquized.  "The  mater  is  mar- 
velously  civilized  for  an  impulsive  person,  but  she 
fails  sometimes.  Sometimes  temper,  sometimes 
affections,  but  both  marks  of  the  Beast.  And 
these  Philistines  she  will  import !  I  am  afraid  my 
own  civilization  will  be  tried.  A  cowboy  and  a — 
a  cowgirl  !  But  a  Spanish  mother  promises  eyes — 
eyes  shake  me.  After  all,  they  may  be  interest 
ing  studies.  Redfern  can  make  the  girl  over,  and 
John  can  go  to  my  tailor.  Poor  Dechard  !  a  cow 
boy  will  tear  his  delicate  nerves  to  pieces ;  never 
theless,  he  must  clothe  him.  I  suppose  this  '  long- 
lost  brother  '  will  advance  on  me  habited  in  very 
light  trousers;  a  low-cut  evening  waistcoat ;  a  red 


64  JOHN  PA  GET. 

cravat,  a  black  frock  coat  longer  in  the  front  than 
in  the  back — a  sombrero  !  his  boots  very  short 
with  very  high  heels.  Ye  gods  !  I  have  seen  one 
or  two  of  the  things  in  Chicago,"  and  he  poked 
the  fire  as  if  his  own  civilization  were  shaken.  "  I 
must  suggest  to  the  mater  to  stop  in  Philadelphia 
and  get  him  an  ulster — a  blanket — anything  to 
hide  him  from  the  servants.  I  do  not  believe  that  I 
could  stand  the  pity  I  should  see  in  Waters'  eyes." 

The  said  Waters  entering  to  remove  breakfast, 
Claude  ordered  the  coupe"  and  his  overcoat,  then 
went  away  to  the  study. 

It  was  a  long  journey  to  Corpus  Christi ;  the 
biting  wind  growing  softer,  the  world  growing 
greener  as  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  went.  The  sweep 
ing  prairies  burst  on  her  sight  ;  the  sunshine  be 
came  hot  glare  ;  then  in  the  dawn  a  shadowy  town 
that  seemed  to  spring  from  the  desert  sand.  A 
muddy  stream,  the  Rio  Grande,  and  foreign 
figures  from  the  Mexican  side.  All  seemed  a 
dream  to  the  weary  woman.  The  desolation  de 
pressed  her,  and  the  voices  of  the  few  people  that 
were  about  had  a  slow,  tired  sound.  Time  meant 
nothing  to  these  people,  and  Carter  was  dying. 
Five  hours  would  have  done  the  remaining  dis 
tance,  even  in  most  parts  of  the  South  ;  here  they 
said  it  would  take  twelve.  Carter  had  been  so 
patient  always,  perhaps  he  would  wait  for  her  even 
now. 

Three  times  in  her  life  Carter  had  sent  for  her. 
The  first  time  he  had  sent  a  messenger  on  horse- 


JOHN  PA  GET.  65 

back  to  fetch  her  from  a  neighbor's  where  she  was 
calling.  She  was  sitting  in  front  of  a  roaring 
wood  fire,  talking  to  a  friend  of  her  grandmother's, 
an  old  lady  who  looked  like  a  delicate  ivory  carv 
ing.  She  remembered  the  fine  lace  of  her  ker 
chief,  and  the  careful  tying  of  her  cap-strings. 
Strange  that  she  should  recall  it  here  in  this 
border  town,  sitting  on  a  railway  platform  in  the 
chilly  dawn.  And  she  had  put  down  the  cake 
and  wine  and  had  gone  away  quickly  from  her 
old  friend,  because  Carter  had  sent  for  her,  and  in 
those  days  she  belonged  to  Carter.  They  seldom 
agreed,  for  she  craved  excitement  and  gayety,  and 
he  was  stern,  and  grave,  and  years  older  than  she. 
She  could  remember  the  sound  of  the  carriage 
wheels  in  the  sand,  and  the  voice  of  the  old  coach 
man  as  he  called  to  the  footman  behind  to  get 
down  and  open  the  gate.  And  she  had  laughed 
at  his  grumbling  about  "  dese  good-fuh-nuttin 
young  niggers  dat  sleep  awl  de  time."  Her  last 
careless  laugh.  Carter  had  met  her  at  the  gate, 
helping  her  out  of  the  carriage.  "  I  had  to  send 
for  you,  dear,"  he  said  ;  "I  needed  you."  And  his 
eyes  were  so  full  of  love — clear,  sweet  eyes,  so 
tender  and  so  true.  The  last  love  she  had  had. 
Since  then  she  had  lived  without  it,  as  the  desert 
lives  without  water. 

In  the  drawing  room  she  had  met  a  stranger; 
handsome,  thoroughbred,  but  beyond  middle  life  ; 
further  beyond  than  appeared,  and  she  a  girl  in 
her  teens. 


66  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  Mr.  Van  Kuyster,"  Carter  had  called  him, 
from  New  York,  with  letters  to  her  brother  John. 
Had  a  cold  wave  touched  this  almost  tropic  dawn 
that  she  should  shiver?  Was  it  the  memory  of 
that  first  clasp  of  her  husband's  hand  ? 

John  had  gone  to  take  Alice  to  her  own  people 
and  could  not  be  back  until  night,  so  it  fell  to 
her  lot  to  make  the  stranger  welcome. 

Again  Carter  had  sent  for  her  when  the  war 
was  done,  and  the  land  was  desolate,  and  she  had 
hurt  him.  She  had  not  dared  to  do  anything 
else.  She  would  explain  it  to  him  now  when  she 
should  meet  him.  Would  he  wait  for  her — stop 
one  day  longer  in  this  worn-out  world  for  her  sake? 

After  that  visit  there,  she  had  bought  the  old 
place,  and  the  silver  too  ;  and  Claude  had  been 
down  often,  but  not  she.  It  must  go  £o  tms 
nephew  John,  who  was  the  only  Paget.  He  had 
been  trained  by  Carter,  he  would  have  all  the 
traditions  of  the  race — all  the  old  ideas — all  the 
old-time  breeding.  Claude  was  essentially  mod 
ern.  She  had  not  been  allowed  to  train  him,  and 
she  had  been  held  up  to  ridicule  so  systematically 
in  his  presence  that  she  had  scarcely  been  able 
to  keep  his  respect.  Claude  had  been  trained  by 
Mr.  Van  Kuyster,  who  seemed  to  have  cast  away 
traditions.  He  ridiculed  everything — nothing 
was  sacred — everything  was  a  fetich.  She  had 
been  trained  through  Claude. 

And  now  Carter  sent  for  her  again.  Death 
was  too  strong  for  him,  and  he  sent  for  his  old 


JOHi\r  PA  GET.  67 

love — the  child  he  had  helped  to  rear.  She  re 
membered  once  she  had  run  away  from  old  Tenah 
to  follow  him  to  the  rice  fields.  Such  a  long  way 
it  was,  and  she  had  fallen  into  a  ditch  and  got 
wet,  and  had  lost  her  sunbonnet,  but  at  last  she 
had  found  him.  She  remembered  how  he  looked, 
sitting  so  straight  on  his-  horse,  with  his  gun 
across  the  saddle  in  front  of  him,  and  the  sun 
shine  all  about  him.  •  And  Romp,  his  red  setter, 
had  rushed  up  to  her  and  licked  her  face  in  his 
delight.  Dear  old  Romp,  were  ever  any  eyes  in 
all  the  world  as  beautiful  as  his  ?  Then  Carter 
caught  sight  of  her  and  came  quickly,  giving  his 
gun  to  a  negro  standing  near.  He  had  swung 
her  up  in  front  of  him,  holding  her  close  and 
wiping  away  her  tears.  "  How  did  you  come, 
little'one  ?  "  he  asked,  half  laughing.  "  I  wanted 
you,"  she  sobbed,  "  I  wante'd  you." 

How  was  it  that  she  had  changed  so  much 
after  she  met  'that  strange  man?  She  had 
seemed  bewitched.  And  Alice  had  worked 
against  her,  had  made  the  first  unhappiness  in 
her  life.  Alice  always  made  her  appear  wrong 
in  John's  eyes,  and  had  made  Carter  hard  on  her 
too.  Alice,  who  was  much  older,  and  should  have 
known  better,  had  spoiled  the  home.  Still,  she 
must  have  been  bewitched.  That  worldly  tongue 
had  fascinated  her,  those  wicked  eyes  had 
charmed  her  as  a  snake  would  charm  a  bird. 
She  shuddered,  they  were  closed  forever ;  now 
she  must  not  call  them  wicked. 


68  JOHN  PA  GET. 

Soon  Carter  would  know  all.  She  had  never 
explained  anything  to  him,  for  he,  himself,  had 
taught  her  that  explanation  showed  weakness 
of  cause  and  character. 

A  bell  rang ;  at  last  the  train  was  ready. 
Twelve  hours,  and  Carter  was  dying.  The  world 
would  seem  empty  without  him,  and  where  would 
he  be  ? 

She  nodded  a  farewell  to  the  little  town.  The 
paper  she  had  read  the  day  before  said  that  it 
had  a  great  future — a  future  down  here  in  the 
desert.  And  how  dreary  to  have  a  future  !  She 
would  almost  like  to  agree  with  Claude  and  Mr. 
Van  Kuyster  about  this  future:  laugh  at  the 
suggestion  and  live  in  the  present.  But  Carter 
would  know,  for  he  hovered  now  in  the  border 
land  between  life  and  death,  and  he  would  tell 
her. 

It  was  a  hot  day,  and  the  way 'was  long  and 
dusty,  and  the  train  was  slow,- and  the  prairie 
was  endless.  It  was  a  dreary  country  in  spite  of 
the  sweeps  of  wild  flowers,  and  she  would  never 
forget  it.  The  snow  she  had  left  in  the  North 
seemed  more  sympathetic. 

How  would  Claude  and  John  get  on,  and  what 
would  Carter's  daughter  be  like  ?  Beatrice,  a 
pretty  name  ;  and  the  story  of  Carter's  marriage 
was  strange.  A  Spanish  lady,  in  dying,  gave  him 
her  little  fortune  and  her  daughter,  praying  him 
to  save  both  from  a  rapacious  uncle  who  had  a 
dispensation  to  marry  the  girl.  And  Carter  had 


JOHN  PA  GET.  69 

married  the  girl  at  once.  They  had  had  one 
daughter,  Beatrice,  who  was  now  just  seventeen ; 
brought  up  in  a  convent  ever  since  her  mother's 
death.  Carter  had  been  such  a  stanch  Protes 
tant,  how  had  he  consented  to  this?  Or  had  his 
young  wife  managed  him?  Her  nephew  John 
was  studying  for  the  ministry.  That  would 
have  annoyed  her  in  the  old  days,  but  now,  if 
one  could  reach  the  point  of  being  absorbed 
and  fanatical  about  anything,  she  deemed  it  a 
blessing. 

The  people  she  lived  among  were  absorbed  in  I 
many  ways.  One  man  had  a  fancy  farm,  and 
could  talk  of  nothing  but  weeds.  Some  women 
were  daft  about  Church  embroidery,  some  about 
art,  some  about  dress  reform,  prison  reform,  ham 
mered  brass,  woodcarving,  refuges  for  women, 
cruelty  to  animals,  etching,  orphan  asylums,  gym 
nastics,  Christian  Science,  Russian  cruelty,  any 
thing  to  quiet  the  conscience  and  the  craving  for 
reality.  No  doubt  good  was  done  as  well  as  time 
killed,  but  reality  seemed  to  be  missing. 

They  were  all  in  earnest,  these  people ;  the 
man  who  talked  of  weeds  spent  hundreds,  that 
his  acres  should  be  guiltless  of  one  dandelion. 
All  the  rest  were  in  earnest  too,  only  the  work 
did  not  seem  to  have  come  to  them  as  the  duty 
of  life.  They  seemed  to  have  created  a  great 
deal  of  it  in  order  to  satisfy  a  restless  energy  by 
which  they  were  possessed.  She  had  no  restless 
energy,  and  any  of  these  things  would  have 


70  JOHN  PAGET. 

seemed  playing  at  work.  She  gave  money,  but 
she  could  not  give  herself.  For  generations  her 
people  had  lived  in  a  hot  climate,  owned  slaves, 
and  been  filled  with  repose.  Work  was  a  serious 
thing  to  such  people,  and  had  to  be  a  solemn 
duty  before  they  would  do  it.  These  Northern 
people  had  lived  in  a  cold  climate,  where  life  was 
a  battle,  and  so  had  been  energetic  for  genera 
tions.  As  long  as  they  had  nature  to  conquer, 
and  fortunes  to  carve  out,  this  energy  was  a 
necessity,  a  boon  ;  but  now  it  had  become  the 
gadfly  that  goaded  them  into  rest-cures  and 
lunatic  asylums.  For  herself,  she  spent  her  time 
on  books  and  the  study  of  her  kind.  The  world 
called  her  icy;  Claude  said  she  was  thoroughly 
civilized.  To  analyze  thoroughly,  one  must  put 
one's  heart  out  of  count;  thus,  to  her,  analysis  of 
her  kind  was  an  easy  thing.  It  had  become  a 
second  nature;  but  she  could  remember  the  time 
when  she  hated  herself  for  this  power  of  moral 
dissection.  Once  when  she  analyzed  her  brother 
John  because  he  was  unjust  to  her,  once  when 
she  had  analyzed  Carter,  it  had  seemed  to  harden 
her  heart.  In  her  analysis  of'Carter,  she  had  left 
weakness  out,  but  weakness  had  come  and  he 
had  sent  for  her.  When  she  should  come  to 
die,  there  would  be  no  one  to  send  for.  A  trained 
nurse,  for  it  was  not  civilized  to  trouble  one's 
friends  with  illness  and  pain  and  death  throes. 
All  the  eyes  that  would  look  into  hers  at  the  end 
would  be  calm  and  resigned  ;  no  hardly  restrained 


JOHN  PA  GET.  71 

agony,  no  passionate  pain,  but  Christian  resigna 
tion  changing  into  resigned  cheerfulness  as  she 
passed  the  point  where  she  could  change  her 
will. 

She  laughed  a  little.  She  had  not  weighed  all 
this  when  she  made  her  choice. 

She  smoothed  her  soft  dress.  She  had  gone 
"  clothed  in  purple  and  fine  linen,"  and  had 
"  fared  sumptuously,"  but  that  had  not  been  the 
temptation  to  her,  for  she  had  never  known  any 
thing  else — she  had  been  bewitched,  that  was  all. 
The  glamour  of  the  world,  the  mocking  light  in 
'those  wicked  eyes  that  had  made  the  simplicity 
and  peace  of  her  past  seem  contracted.  And 
Carter  had  insisted  on  going  into  the  ministry. 
The  day  seemed  endless.  Would  Carter  wait  for 
her? 

Poor  Carter !  He  had  been  richer  than  she. 
His  wife,  his  child,  his  peaceful  life  full  of  small 
duties.  How  the  thought  of  quiet  day  succeed 
ing  day  had  irritated  her  in  her  youth,  when  she 
longed  for  the  "  kingdoms  of  the  world."  She 
had  grasped  the  mirage,  and  regret  and  longing 
had  made  the  warp  and  woof  of  her  life ;  a 
"  might  have  been  "  had  been  her  only  dream. 

Again  she  smoothed  her  soft  dress.  She  had 
always  loved  luxurious  things,  and  missing  them, 
she  would,  without  doubt,  have  been  miserable. 
Traveling  alone  to  the  death  of  her  one  love  was 
making  her  maudlin.  How  Claude  would  have 
laughed — how  Mr.  Van  Kuyster's  eyes  would 


72  JOHN  FACET. 

have  glittered  with  cynical  amusement  over  her 
train  of  thought.  His  nostrils  would  have  con 
tracted,  and  his  face  have  drawn  into  many  tiny 
wrinkles,  because  he  had  found  a  point  on  which 
.to  attack  her. 

He  was  dead,  but  she  often  seemed  to  see  his 
face,  and  hear  the  clear  metallic  sound  he  called 
a  laugh.  The  ridicule  she  had  undergone  was  a 
bitter  recollection  ;  under  it  she  had  become  what 
Claude  called  "  civilized."  The  same  civilization 
as  the  Red  Indian's,  whose  lips  no  agony  can 
open — as  the  old  Spartan  civilization  ;  only  in 
these  modern  days  the  Indian  must  smile  as  the 
fire  crisps  hisjflesh  ;  and,  while  the  fox  gnaws,  the 
Spartan  must  wax  enthusiastic  about  the  preven 
tion  of  cruelty  to  animals. 

She  laughed.  She  must  gather  herself  together 
before  she  reached  her  journey's  end  ;  whatever 
she  might  reveal  to  Carter,  the  young  people, 
John  and  Beatrice,  must  see  nothing. 

The  evening  fell,  the  air  grew  cooler  with  a 
freshness  in  it  "like  the  sea  winds  at  The  Oaks," 
she  thought. 

"  What  is  it  that  smells  so  sweet  ?  "  she  asked 
a  fellow-traveler.  "  Huisachie,"  was  answered  ; 
"  we  are  at  Corpus." 

The  train  stopped  at  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  and 
before  her  eyes  was  spread  a  glory  of  moonlit 
waters,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  a  sweetness 
strangely  familiar.  Huisachie,  what  was  that? 
Then  a  tall  young  man — and  more  than  the 


JOHN  PA  GET.  73 

magic  perfume,  he  took  her  into  the  past.  She 
went  up  to  him.  "John,"  she  said,  "John 
Paget." 

"  Aunt  Claudia,"  he  answered,  and  stooped 
and  kissed  her.  Surely  she  was  dead  and  gone 
into  the  other  world  ! 

He  held  her  hands,  and  she  looked  up  into  his 
face,  so  clear-cut,  so  stern.  Was  it  not  the  same 
face  that  had  condemned  her  when  she  went 
away  years  ^ago  with  the  man  of  her  choice  ? 
And  the  same  voice  that  had  said  "God  help  \ 
you  " — but  never  once,  "  God  bless  you." 

"Carter  is  dead,"  he  said,  then  dropped  her 
hands  and  turned  to  gather  up  her  things.  "  He 
died  this  morning  at  dawn — at  the  rise  of  the 
wind." 

In  the  gray  dawn,  when  she  sat  shivering  and 
dreaming,  his  spirit  had  come  to  her — had  led 
her  back  to  the  still,  old  days.  She  said  nothing, 
but  followed  to  the  vehicle  that  was  waiting  be 
low  the  bluff. 

There  stretched  a  white-shelled  road  that  ran 
very  near  the  water  ;  then  the  wide  sweep  of  the 
bay  that  went  out  to  the  gulf — that  went  out  to 
the  wandering  sea. 

"  How  beautiful,"  she  said,  "  and  how  sweet!  " 

"  Huisachie,"  John  answered.  "  Opoponax, 
Carter  called  them.  All  these  trees  are  either 
huisachie  or  fig." 

"  Opopanax  ;  that  is  the  reason  it  made  me 
think  of  home." 


74  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"The  old  plantation?" — it  was  a  deep,  sweet 
voice.  "Carter  has  often  told  me  about  it." 

"  You  called  him  Carter  ?  " 

"  He  liked  it  because  my  voice  was  like  my 
father's.  He  wanted  you  very  much,  Aunt 
Claudia." 

"  You  should^  have  telegraphed,"  she  answered 
quickly. 

"  When  we  wrote  the  physician  said  he  would 
live  for  weeks ;  at  the  last  it  was  very  sudden." 

"And  his  daughter?" 

"  Beatrice  has  been  away  from  her  father  all  her 
life  almost,  she  scarcely  knew  hirrh  For  me  " — 
he  stopped  for  a  moment.  "  For  you,  Aunt  Clau 
dia,  Carter  had  a  great  longing.  He  talked  of 
you  incessantly.  At  the  last  he  wandered  a 
little."  John  paused,  and  the  woman  beside  him 
scarcely  breathed.  "  He  seemed  to  have  gone 
back  to  when  you  were  a  little  child,  and  laughed 
because  you  were  so  droll,  he  said.  His  last 
words  were  to  you.  '  I  had  to  send  for  you,  dear,' 
he  said,  '  I  needed  you.'  Then  his  mind  came 
back,  and  he  looked  at  me  and  whispered,  '  The 
wind  has  risen,  and  my  soul  will  go  out  with  it — 
tell  her  I  tried  to  wait.'  And  I  heard  the  long  rip 
ple  on  the  sands,  and  his  soul  went  with  a  sigh." 

He  ceased,  but  no  answer  came.  They  had 
driven  the  length  of  the  town  by  this,  and  stopped 
on  the  beach,  where  a  small  house  stood  with  some 
trees  about  it.  In  front  was  a  garden  reclaimed 
from  the  sand — then  the  beach — then  the  curving 


JOHN  FACET.  75 

bay.  It  was  only  a  short  way  to  the  piazza 
where  a  figure  in  white  stood,  and  John  -said  : 

"This  is  Beatrice,  aunt,"  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuy- 
ster  scanned  the  young  face  from  which  the  soft 
dark  eyes  looked  dreamily,  as  if  the  soul  behind 
them  were  sleeping  still. 

"  You  have  come  too  late,"  the  girl  said  simply. 

"She  knows,"  John  answered,  "and  is  very 
tired.  I  will  take  her  to  her  room,  and  you  send 
a  cup  of  tea,  dear." 

"  So  ?  well  then,  I  will,"  and  she  turned  away. 

"She  is  such  a  dreamer,"  John  explained  as  he 
led  the  way  up  the  stairs,  "  I  have  to  tell  her 
always  what  to  do.  I  think  the  training  at  the 
Convent  was  a  mistake,  but  Carter  said  a  girl 
needed  women  about  her.  This  is  your  room, 
aunt,  and  when  you  want  to  go  down,  he  is  in  a 
room  to  the  right  of  the  hall.  I  shall  send  Bea 
trice  to  bed  presently ;  she  is  a  gentle  creature." 
Then  he  shut  the  door  and  went  away. 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  looked  about  her  mechani 
cally  on  the  plainness  and  barrenness  of  the  place ; 
but  through  the  open  window  shone  the  moon 
light,  and  the  bay,  and  the  long  waves  rippling 
softly  on  the  sands. 

In  the  same  mechanical  way  she  took  off  her 
bonnet  and  bathed  her  face.  Then  a  little,  old, 
brown  woman  came  with  a  tray,  putting  it  down 
and  courtesying,  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  ate  and 
drank  with  scarcely  a  realization  of  what  she  did. 
When  the  servant  and  the  tray  were  gone,  she 


7  6  JOHN  PA  GET. 

heard  the  sound  of  muffled  steps  and  closing 
doors,  then  all  was  still.  Was  the  town  asleep 
too  ?  How  plainly  she  heard  the  waves  and  the 
wind  that  stirred  in  the  opopanax  trees  outside 
the  windows !  She  reached  out  and  gathered 
some  of  the  little  yellow  balls  ;  how  sweet  they 
were!  The  old  lady  she  had  been  seeing,  that 
first  day  Carter  sent  for  her,  kept  them  among 
her  caps  and  laces.  How  merrily  the  fire  had 
crackled,  how  nice  the  lightwood  had  smelled  as 
it  burned — how  blue  the  sky  was ;  how  sweet  the 
orange  blossoms  that  looked  in  at  the  open  win 
dow"!  How  oppressive  the  steady  heat  of  the 
Northern  houses  had  been  to  her,  after  the  open 
windows  and  roaring  fires  of  her  home !  The 
careless,  spendthrift,  comfortable,  arrogant,  beau 
tiful  South — what  a  wonderful  life  the  "  upper 
ten  thousand  "  had  led — how  sure  they  had  been 
that  the  world  had  been  made  for  them !  Swept 
away !  And  now  it  was  becoming  a  money- 
making,  and  money-saving,  conventional  country 
like  any  other!  She  smelled  the  little  yellow 
balls  once  more.  She  had  found  some  in  Egypt 
when  she  went  there  on  her  wedding  tour.  Some 
of  the  bitterest  realizations  of  her  life  had  come 
to  her  in  that  beautiful  Cairene  garden. 

As  a  child  she  had  learned  to  climb  on  an 
opopanax  tree,  because  the  branches  were  near 
the  ground.  It  had  been  destruction  to  her 
frocks,  but  what  Southern  child  ever  hesitated 
between  fun  and  clothes!  Once  she  had  fallen 


JOHN  PA  GET.  77 

from  the  top  of  the  tree,  and  had  caught  by  her 
skirts  on  the  stump  of  a  broken  branch.  It  was 
not  a  tall  tree,  but  it  had  seemed  an  awful  fall  to 
her.  At  her  cry,  her  father  had  come  from  where 
he  was  smoking  on  the  long  piazza,  to  find  her 
dangling.  What  a  stout  little  flannel  petticoat  it 
must  have  been  to  hold  her  safe  while  her  father 
laughed  !  How  furious  the  laughing  made  her  ! 
Then  Carter  came  and  lifted  her  down.  He  was 
laughing  a  little  himself ;  she  saw  that  when  he 
brushed  her  curls  back,  but  not  much,  and  he  had 
carried  her  off  in  his  arms  that  she  might  weep 
away  her  anger  and  mortification  with  only  him 
for  witness.  Carter — Carter — Carter  !  How  all 
the  days  of  her  life  had  been  woven  in  with  his  ! 

How  still  it  was  !  John  had  meant  that  if  she 
went  down  she  should  be  alone.  Carter  lay  there 
dead.  Not  the  Carter  of  her  youth,  not  even  the 
Carter  she  had  last  seen,  but  an  old  man.  Did 
she  want  to  see  him  ?  Living,  she  would  have 
found  his  heart  and  soul  as  they  had  been ;  the 
body  would  not  have  mattered  !  Would  not  she 
rather  remember  him  ? 

She  would  hide  the  little  flowers  in  his  coffin 
in  memoriam ;  he  would  understand  what  they 
meant.  She  would^bury  her  remorse  with  him  ; 
it  was  not  needful  that  it  should  live  now  that  he 
was  at  rest. 

He  had  come  to  her  in  the  dawn — where  was 
he  now?  She  opened  the  door  softly  and  stole 
downstairs.  She  paused  with  her  hand  on  the 


78  JOHN  PA  GET. 

latch.  It  was  an  old  man  she  would  see,  not  her 
lover. 

All  the  available  space  in  the  little  room  was 
filled  with  bookshelves,  and  a  shabby  desk  was 
pushed  against  the  fireplace  to  make  way  for  the 
coffin.  The  windows  opened  down  to  the  floor, 
and  the  dim  lamplight  mingled  strangely  with 
the  moonlight  that  poured  in.  Here,  apart  from 
human  kind,  he  had  lived  the  real  life  of  all  these 
years.  He  had  had  a  way  of  walking  up  and 
down  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him.  Up 
and  down  this  little  hole  ! 

Carter  dead  !  It  was  a  stranger  she  would  see 
when  she  turned  to  that  coffin.  The  fine  dark 
hair  would  be  white ;  the  delicate,  sensitive  fea 
tures  would  be  a  little  thickened  and  marred  by 
time ;  the  grave,  sweet  lips  would  have  grown 
thinner  and  sterner;  the  eyes  would  be  closed. 

She  shivered  a  little.  The  moonlight  had 
grown  so  cold,  and  the  winds  and  the  waves  so 
still ! 

The  white  priestly  vestments  lay  in  straight 
folds,  the  fine  hair  shone  as  a  silver  crown,  the 
slim,  folded  hands  were  marble — the  calm,  strong 
face  was  radiant !  What  vision  had  his  vanish 
ing  spirit  seen  that  left  such  light  in  every  death- 
fixed  curve  and  line?  What  use  her  little 
flowers,  what  use  her  remorse,  her  earthly  love 
and  sorrow?  The  light  from  that  glorified  coun 
tenance  destroyed  the  flimsy  dream  that  through 
all  these  years  she  had  been  in  his  life  ;  and  past 


JOHN  PA  GET.  79 

and  future  were  left  empty.  He  had  lived  above 
her — above  the  world.  A  conquered  life,  a  free 
spirit  seeing  the  unseen,  touching  the  infinite. 

There  were  such  things.  In  the  world  one 
doubted  them,  but  the  glory  in  that  face  swept 
one  out  to  the  central  calm  where  faith  keeps 
guard.  What  use  her  remorse,  her  love,  to  this 
strong  saint  of  God? 

She  closed  the  door  softly,  and  went  away  up 
stairs.  No  fear  now  of  betraying  anything,  and 
she  would  impress  it  on  John  that  all  the  longing 
for  her,  and  all  the  wanderings,  had  been  but  a 
sick  man's  fancies.  t 

Very  matter-of-fact  she  was  the  next  morning 
while  John  studied  her.  Very  quiet  through  the 
funeral  service,  showing  annoyance  when  Beatrice 
broke  into  sobs  as  the  earth  fell  on  the  coffin. 
The  man's  dead  face  had  struck  her  such  a  numb 
ing  blow  at  the  last.  What  use  that  she  should 
feel  and  remember? 

And' when  the  little  flowers  drooped,  she  flung 
them  into  the  sea. 


V. 

"  She  hath  fair  eyes  ;  maybe 
I  love  her  for  sweet  eyes,  or  brows  or  hair, 
For  the  smooth  temples,  where  God  touching  her 
Made  blue  with  sweeter  veins  the  flower  sweet  white  ; 
Or  for  the  tender  turning  of  the  wrist, 
Or  marriage  of  the  eyelid  with  the  cheek  ; 
I  cannot  tell  ;  or  blush  of  lifting  throat, 
I  know  not  if  the  color  get  a  name 
This  side,  of  heaven— no  man  knows  ;  or  her  mouth, 
A  flower's  lip." 

T3EATRICE  thought  that  she  had  never  seen 
-L)  anything  as  dismal  as  New  York.  The 
weather  was  very  bad,  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
lived  in  a  fashionable  part  of  the  town,  so  that 
an  occasional  omnibus  or  coal  wagon  or  cab  was 
the  only  thing  to  be  seen.  Ever  since  morning 
sleet  and  rain  and  snow  had  taken  turns  in  fall 
ing,  and  a  horrible  homesickness  came  over  the 
girl  as  she  remembered  the  roses  of  Corpus  Christi 
and  the  blue  waves  washing  on  the  shore.  How 
*could  one  live  in  a  climate  like  this  from  choice? 
The  house  was  warm,  with  a  dead,  still  heat  for 
which  the  fires  could  not  account ;  a  heat  that  op 
pressed  her,  but  did  not  drive  the  cold  from  her 
bones. 

They  had  arrived  very  early,  with  nothing  to 
meet  them  but  servants  and  a  telegram  from  her 


JOHN  PA  GET.  8r 

cousin  Claude  in  Washington.  He  would  be  at 
home  for  dinner. 

After  lunch  she  was  told  to  lie  down  until  the 
maid  should  come  to  dress  her;  then  her  few 
dresses  were  taken  away.  She  was  dressed  now 
in  her  Confirmation  frock  ;  a  white  wool  thing 
which  she  remembered  as  being  unsufferably  hot 
that  Southern  winter  day,  but  that  seemed  noth\ 
ing  in  this  climate.  Would  she  ever  be  warm 
again  ? 

She  satin  a  deep  chair  close  to  the  drawing 
room  fire,  feeling  more  comfortable  than  she  had 
done  at  any  time  since  her  arrival.  This  seemed 
a  strange  life,  and  John  now  left  her  entirely  to 
Mrs.  Van  Kuyster.  A  very  handsome  woman 
she  was,  looking  scarcely  older  than  John,  and 
dressed  so  beautifully ;  but  why  should  middle- 
aged  people  care  how  they  looked  ? 

All  the  long  afternoon  she  had  rested  ;  still,  she 
was  sleepy.  Why  not  go  to  sleep  ?  No  one 
seemed  to  be  coming,  and  dinner  would  be  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  probably,  for  it  had  been 
dark  for  so  long. 

So  this  was  the  "  cowgirl,"  and,  leaning  against 
the  mantelpiece,  Claude  looked  down  on  Beatrice 
sleeping  in  the  big  red  chair.  He  had  come  into 
the  fire-lighted  room  quietly,  and  now  stood  very 
still.  What  an  extraordinary  frock  it  seemed ! 
but  such  a  throat,  and  such  hands  and  wrists — 
ye  gods  !  Tailor-made  clothes  would  spoil  her. 
Was  her  hair  arranged  at  all,  or  did  it  grow  in 


82  JOHN  PA  GET. 

those  waves  and  folds  about  her  head  ?  Was  it 
the  firelight  that  made  the  girl  such  a  picture? — 
and  her  lips!  A  pomegranate  flower.  A  cheap 
old  simile,  but  it  suited  her.  Would  her  eyes  be 
beautiful  ?  How  heavy  the  lids  were,  and  the 
lashes  lay  like  shadows  on  her  cheeks.  Would 
her  teeth  be  good — and  her  voice — and  her  Eng 
lish  ?  His  dream  seemed  to  fall  into  dust  and 
ashes.  If  the  mother  had  been  half  as  lovely 
as  this  girl,  it  had  been  no  hardship  for  Carter 
Wilton  to  marry  her. 

Mr.  Van  Kuyster  had  so  often  twitted  his  wife 
with  the  name  of  Carter  Wilton  that  Claude  had 
decided  that  an  old  love  story  lived  behind  it, 
and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's  explanation  that  her 
cousin  had  married  for  pity  had  confirmed  his 
belief.  He  raised  his  eyes  from  the  fire  where 
they  had  been  fixed  while  he  thought,  to  find 
the  girl's  eyes  open.  They  did  not  look  startled, 
perhaps  hardly  awake. 

"  Is  dinner  ready  ?  "  The  voice  was  so  soft  and 
slow  that  each  syllable  seemed  to  be  a  matter  of 
thought.  "  Not  quite,"  he  answered,  then  waited 
while  the  dark  eyes,  questioning  like  a  child's, 
looked  at  him  quietly. 

"  Are  you  John's  brother,  the  one  who  changed 
his  name  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  would  not  have  done  that." 

"  Nor  I,"  Claude  answered  glibly ;  "  it  was  done 
for  me." 


JOHN  PA  GET.  83 

"  How  is  it  you  are  so  fair  ?  "  was  the  next  ques 
tion.  "  John  is  dark  ;  are  not  you  twins  ?  " 

"  Yes,  we  are  twins,"  pulling  his  mustache  to 
hide  a  smile,  "  and  I  do  not  know  how  the  dif 
ference  came." 

"  And  John  is  bigger  than  you." 

"Is  he?" 

"  Have  you  not  seen  him  ?  " 

"  No,  I  only  had  time  to  dress  for  dinner." 

"  So  ?  I  should  have  gone  to  see  my  brother 
first." 

"You  have  been  better  trained  than  I." 

"  Yes,  I  was  trained  in  the  Convent,  and  the 
Mother  is  a  saint,  I  think." 

"  A  Frenchwoman  ?  " 

"  No,  the  sisters  were  French,  and  the  priest  ; 
the  Mother  was  English." 

"  Ah,  yes;  I  believe  some  English  people  have 
been  saints." 

"  But  French  people  also.  Oh,  there  have 
been  lots  and  lots  of  saints !  We  used  to  read 
their  lives  all  the  time.  Poor  things,  they  had 
such  trouble.  But  that  little  while  of  suffering 
does  not  matter  now,  you  know,  for  they  have 
reached  eternal  blessedness.  They  had  not  to 
go  to  Purgatory  for  a  day  even."  She  was  lean 
ing  a  little  forward,  and  her  eyes  were  shining. 

"  Are  you  a  Catholic  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  called  the  Sisters 
Catholics,  and  they  called  themselves  so,  but  John 
got  vexed  and  gave  me  a  long  explanation  about 


84  JOHN  PA  GET. 

it  all.  He  called  them  Romanists  ;  is  that  what 
you  mean  ?  No,  I  am  not  a  Romanist.  John 
lectured  me  a  lot,  but  father  did  not  bother 
me  ;  he  only  said  we  must  be  good,  that  we  must 
fight  for  Christianity,  and  not  about  different 
creeds." 

"And  are  you  going  to  fight  for  Christianity?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  have  not  got  sense  enough.  The 
Mother  said  that  woman's  work  in  life  was  obe 
dience  ;  so  while  father  and  John  studied  and 
puzzled,  I  swung  in  the  hammock  under  the  fig 
trees." 

"And  are  you  obedient?" 

"  Yes,  when  anybody  tells  me  what  to  do." 

"  And  when  they  do  not  ?  " 

"  Then  I  don't  do  anything." 

"  You  go  to  sleep,  perhaps." 

"  Perhaps.  John  always  told  me  what  to  do 
until  Aunt  Claudia  came  ;  now  he  seems  miles 
away.  John  is  so  good  he  frightens  me.  He  is 
a  deacon,  you  know." 

"The  devil!" 

"Yes,"  nodding  her  head.  "He  makes  me 
think  of  Father  Michael  who  used  to  come  to  the 
Convent  to  confess  us.  Sister  Therese  said  he  was 
a  saint.  He  was  an  Englishman.  She  said  the 
father  used  to  lash  himself  on  his  bare  skin  until 
he  bled,  and  then  he  put  on  a  stickery  hair  shirt 
and  a  belt  with  spikes  in  it.  Once  he  had  been 
very  wicked.  He  frightened  me  ;  his  eyes  used 
to  burn  like  fire.  Do  you  think  he  did  all  that  ?  " 


JOHN  PA  GET.  85 

"  No,"  Claude  answered  promptly.  "  But  is 
John  like  that?" 

"  Old  Angela  said  not  ;  she  was  the  servant, 
you  know,  my  grandmother's  and  my  mother's 
servant.  She  cried  when  we  came  away.  She 
said  John  should  have  married  me  and  gone  on 
living  there — that  my  mother  had  been  married 
so — that  a  motherless  girl  should  be  married  very 
soon  and  asked  no  questions.  The  Mother 
thought  so  too.  I  wanted  to  be  a  nun,  it  was  so 
peaceful.  I  put  on  a  habit  one  day,  and  showed 
myself  to  the  Mother.  She  smiled  and  blessed 
me,  and  hoped  it  would  be  so  some  day." 

"  And  was  the  dress  becoming  to  you?" 

"  Yes,  only  all  my  hair  was  covered,  and  every 
body  says  that  I  have  very  pretty  hair.  Sister 
Therese  used  to  take  care  of  it,  and  she  said  I 
could  cut  it  off  and  lay  it  on  the  altar  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  and  then  in  heaven  I  should  find 
it  all  again,  and  turned  to  purest  gold.  But  I 
like  dark  hair  best,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  believe  I  do,"  Claude  answered,  turning  to 
where  Waters  was  lighting  the  lamps.  "  Light 
them  all,"  he  said,  then  watched  to  see  how  the 
girl's  beauty  would  stand  the  light. 

"  I  love  light,"  she  said,  "  and  here  it  is  so  dark 
and  cold.  In  Corpus  the  roses  are  blooming,  and 
the  sky  and  the  water  are  so  blue.  And  the 
jackdaws  !  There  are  thousands  of  them,  and 
they  are  so  funny  and  so  clever.  I  loved  to  see 
them  steal  the  figs.  Do  you  know  jackdaws?" 


86  JOHN  PAGET. 

"  Only  what  I  have  read." 

"  I  wish  you  had  come  to  Corpus.  At  the 
Convent  we  had  a  pet  crow — old  Corvus — he 
used  to  steal  dreadfully,  and  when  the  cat  would 
be  asleep  in  the  sun,  old  Corvus  would  nip  his 
tail,  then  look  away  as  if  he  had  not  done  it ;  and 
the  cat  would  be  in  such  a  rage — and  the  dog 
too.  Once  Corvus  was  nearly  killed.  Father 
Michael  found  him  on  the  altar  in  the  chapel,  and 
said  that  he  must  die,  and  shut  him  up  in  a  cage 
to  kill  him  after  vespers.  How  we  cried — Marie, 
Antoinette,  and  I,  and  prayed  the  Mother  to  save 
him,  and  she  did.  She  talked  to  Father  Michael, 
then  brought  Corvus  to  us." 

"  How  many  girls  were  in  the  convent  ?  " 

"  Only  the  three  of  us.  It  was  not  a  school. 
It  was  away  off  in  the  country,  down  by  the 
water.  The  Mother  and  six  Sisters  lived  there. 
It  was  a  farm  that  sent  things  to  Convents  in 
towns,  and  took  care  of  sick  Sisters  and  girls 
from  other  Convents.  The  Mother  never  let  us 
see  the  town  girls ;  she  said  that  town  mice  were 
not  good  for  country  mice.  I  could  just  talk 
when  I  went  there.  My  grandmother  was 
Spanish  and  found  out  this  convent  for  a  place 
to  educate  my  mother.  So  it  was  my  mother's 
home  and  mine.  Marie  and  Antoinette  were 
orphans  and  given  to  be  nuns.  I  wish  I  had 
been,  but  John  gets  into  a  rage  when  I  say  that. 
Yet,  when  he  talks  to  me  he  makes  me  long  more 
than  ever  to  go  back,  for  it  makes  me  tired  even 


JOHN  PA  GET.  87 

to  think  of  all  the  things  he  says  a  [Christian 
ought  to  do."  Suddenly  she  rose  and  stood  as 
if  on  drill,  and  Claude  turned  to  see  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  entering. 

"  So  you  have  come,"  as  Claude  kissed  her 
lightly  on  her  cheek,  "  and  have  made  friends 
with  Beatrice.  Sit  down,  dear,"  to  the  girl,  who 
was  still  standing;  and  Beatrice  sitting  down 
primly  on  a  very  straight  chair,  Claude  felt  a 
little  at  a  loss.  He  had  thought  she  was  afraid 
of  being  caught  sitting  carelessly,  and  talking 
familiarly  to  a  stranger,  even  though  he  was  a 
cousin,  but  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's  words  made  him 
abandon  this  conclusion.  Perhaps  it  was  respect ! 
He  had  seen  such  respect  in  other  countries,  and 
had  fallen  in  love  with  it  rather  ;  but  the  average 
American  girl,  if  she  observed  her  elders  at  all, 
granted  them  only  a  condescending  patronage. 
Then  he  remembered  that  this  girl  could  scarcely 
be  called  American. 

"You  are  quite  well,  mother?"  he  said  mean 
while. 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you  :  and  you  ?  " 
"  Quite  well.     I  should  have  been  at  home  to 
meet  you,"  he  went  on,  "  but  did  not  dream  that 
you  could  get  here  so  soon." 

"  We  left  immediately.    Have  you  seen  John  ?  " 

"  No,  but  here  he  is,"  and  Claude  went  forward 

to  meet  his  brother.     How  different  they  were, 

Beatrice  thought,  as  she  watched   the   meeting. 

Claude  was  slighter  and  shorter  than  John,  and 


88  JOHN  FACET. 

so  very  fair.  There  was  something  grand  about 
John — too  grand  ;  he  frightened  her. 

And  Claude  said  lightly,  "What  a  whale  you 
are,  Jack."  John  seemed  to  wince  a  little,  then 
he  smiled.  His  smile  was  beautiful — if  only  he 
would  smile  oftener,  the  girl  thought. 

"  I  remember  you  perfectly,"  he  answered, 
putting  his  hand  on  Claude's  shoulder  and  look 
ing  straight  into  his  eyes,  "  have  you  no  recollec 
tion  of  me  ?." 

Claude  shook  his  head — "  I  remember  old 
Tenah,  and  remember  what  we  played,  and  how 
we  played,  but  your  looks  made  no  impression  on 
me." 

"And  our  mother?" 

"Only  as  someone  always  sick,  and  Carter 
as  always  taking  us  out  that  we  might  not  dis 
turb  her.  I  remember  him  as  a  sort  of  lovely 
giant." 

Then  dinner  was  announced,  and  Claude 
turned  to  Beatrice. 

"  Dinner  at  last,"  he  said,  and  put  her  hand  on 
his  arm.  "  John  frightens  me  too,"  he  whispered 
as  they  followed  into  the  dining  room ;  "  he  is 
quite  awful." 

"  But  he  has  a  better  voice  than  you.  I  never 
knew  until  now  what  made  me  listen  always  when 
he  spoke — it  is  his  voice.  You  call  Aunt  Claudia 
mother?" 

"  Yes,  I  was  adopted.  Your  father  sold  me, 
and  now  you  tell  me  it  was  wrong." 


JOHN  FACET.  89 

"  Not  if  father  did  it.  I  wonder  how  much 
they  paid  him  for  you." 

"  Hush  !  "  Claude  answered,  laughing,  "  another 
time." 

As  dinner  went  on  Claude's  spirits  rose.  To 
him  the  girl  was  charming;  and  John,  though  a 
trifle  solemn,  was  most  distinguished  looking. 
He  was  terribly  in  earnest,  and  was  talking  about 
the  slums  now. 

"  Carter  suggested  that  I  could  provide  for  my 
course  at  the  seminary  by  assisting  in  some 
church,"  he  was  saying  ;  "  is  it  possible?" 

"  I  suppose  so,  but  there  is  no  necessity." 

"  I  want  the  experience,"  he  answered  a  little 
stiffly,  "  and  I  suspect  that  they  need  slum- 
workers — '  slummers  '  you  call  them  ?  " 

"  The  best  antidote  for  the  slums  is  Black- 
well's  Island,"  Claude  struck  in,  "with  Sing  Sing 
for  the  extras,  and  electricity  for  the  hope 
less." 

"  Perhaps,"  John  answered  ;  "  but  even  with  all 
these  antidotes  working  busily,  wretched  crea 
tures  still  swarm  in  the  slums.  What  shall  be 
done  with,  or  to  them,  if  you  like  that  better?" 

"  '  To  them'  is  better.  I  think  transportation 
to  Alaska  and  New  Mexico  would  be  good." 

"  Then  form  a  society  for  the  prevention  of 
poverty  and  sin  and  slums?" 

"  Poverty  and  sin  are  synonymous.  Preven 
tion  of  poverty  would  be  sufficient," 

"What  is  poverty?" 


90  JOHN  FACET. 

Claude  shook  his  head.  "  It  is  as  hard  to  de 
fine  as  wealth.  I  should  say  it  is  not  having 
what  one  wants.  You  ask  dreadful  Pilatinous 
questions.  What  is  poverty,  Beatrice?" 

"  The  Mother  said  not  to  have  what  one  needed 
was  to  be  poor." 

"  Needed — not  wanted.  I  think  I  must  hunt 
that  Reverend  Mother  up  and  go  to  school  to 
her.  What  do  you  think?" 

"  She  would  teach  you  a  great  deal,"  Beatrice 
answered,  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  laughed. 

"  What  made  her  tell  you  that  about  poverty?" 

"  There  was  a  bad  man  with  a  big  ranch  who 
used  to  come  to  the  convent  for  medicine,  and 
Sister  Therese  called  him  rich,  and  the  Mother 
called  him  poor.  He  was  not  a  Christian,  she 
said,  and  so  did  not  have  the  only  thing  that  one 
absolutely  needs."  She  looked  deprecatingly  at 
John.  "He  asked  me,"  she  said;  "I  had  to 
answer." 

"Does  not  John  allow  you  to  talk?"  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  asked,  smiling. 

"Yes;  but  the  Mother  said  that  I  was  too 
young  to  speak  unless  I  was  spoken  to,  and 
John  looked  so  surprised." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  then  Claude 
looked  at  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster.  "  Don't  you  think," 
he  said,  "  that  the  government  should  import  a 
Reverend  Mother  for  every  girl  baby  born  in  the 
land,  and  send  them  off  to  lonely  prairies  ?  Think 
of  it,  women  who  would  listen  ! "  and  he  gave 


JOHN  PA  GET.  91 

Beatrice  a  meditative  look  which  she  did  not 
see,  being  busy  with  her  dinner. 

"And  you  and  the  Mother,  Claude,  agree  with 
a  difference,"  John  said.  "  She  says  sin  is  pov 
erty;  you  say  poverty  is  sin." 

"  I  understood  that  the  Mother  holds  unbelief 
to  be  the  only  poverty,  not  sin.  Am  I  not 
right,  Beatrice  ?  " 

"Of  course;    for   unbelief   is  sin,  is  it  not?" 

Claude  smiled,  "/don't  know,"  he  said  ;  "for 
the  Mother  would  call  Jack  a  heretic,  and  Jack 
would  call  the  Mother  a  schismatic  ;  and  when 
saintly  Mothers  and  Reverend  deacons  begin  to 
vituperate,  what  must  lay  folk  think  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  that  the  Mother  and  I  agree  on  the 
fundamental  truths,"  John  answered,  looking  at 
his  brother  thoughtfully;  then  he  added,  "  But  to 
whom  shall  I  apply  for  work  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes  " — and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  seemed 
to  bring  her  thoughts  back  with  an  effort, — "  to 
Mr.  Ratcliffe,  our  rector,  of  course." 

"  And  his  churchmanship,"  Claude  suggested. 
"  What  is  the  rhyme— 

"  Broad  and  hazy, 
Low  and  lazy, 
High  and  crazy — 

"  What  is  your  fad,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Carter  advised  me  not  to  be  a  party  man 
if  I  could  help  it,"  John  answered.  "In  these 
days  everything  Christian  had  better  stand 


92  JOHN  FACET. 

shoulder  to  shoulder  against  everything  anti- 
Christian." 

"  Quite  true,"  Claude  answered.  "  The  creeds 
ought  to  decide  where  the  best  stand  can  be 
made,  and  make  it  at  once.  And  any  scheme  of 
religion  on  which  they  agree  as  being  the  best 
moral  sanitary  measure,  ought  to  be  supported, 
and  would  be,  I  think,  by  all  respectable  people. 
Don't  swear,  Jack,"  laying  his  hand  on  his 
brother's  arm  as  if  to  stop  the  words  he  saw  on 
his  lips.  "  The  sooner  we  understand  each  other, 
the  better.  We  must  talk  it  over.  Meanwhile, 
I  think  that  you  and  Beatrice  are  most  docile 
young  people.  She  declares  herself  a  reflection 
of  the  Mother,  and  you  seem  to  reflect  Carter 
Wilton." 

"  I  wish  I  could  reflect  Carter,  for  even  that 
would  be  a  great  light." 

"  Why  did  he  not  come  out  into  the  world, 
then  ?  why  did  he  not  head  a  crusade  ?  " 

"A  crusade  takes  a  strong  heart,"  John  an 
swered,  "  and  I  think  Carter's  heart  was  broken." 
Then  he  rose  to  follow  Beatrice  and  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster. 

Later,  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  and  Claude  were  in 
the  study  together ;  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  looking 
over  bills,  and  Claude  smoking. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  have  tailor-made 
clothes  for  Beatrice,"  he  said  unexpectedly. 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  looked  at  him  a  moment, 
then  returned  to  the  bill  she  was  studying. 


JOHN  PAGET.  93 

"  She  is  too  picturesque  for  rectangular 
clothes,"  he  added. 

"  On  the  contrary,  absolute  plainness  and 
simplicity  will  greatly  enhance  her  beauty.  A 
beautiful  woman  can  dare  any  style  of  dress 
if  she  cling  to  two  things — trimness  and  fresh 
ness  ;  and  a  plain  woman  can  always  be  chic. 
Who  ever  remembers  that  Marjorie  Van  Kuyster 
is  not  pretty." 

Claude  clapped  his  hands  softly.  "  Positively 
you  wax  epigrammatic,"  he  said ;  "  but  Beatrice 
has  a  style  of  her  own." 

"  And  will  always  have.  Besides,  Beatrice  is  a 
schoolgirl,  and  for  one  year  will  be  in  mourning." 

"  The  devil ! "  and  Claude  walked  to  the  fire. 
"The  folly  of  it,  putting  that  child  in  black: 
sacrificing  her  beauty  and  my  pleasure  to  a  vile 
old  custom  that  must  have  been  invented  by 
idiots — it's  scandalous  !  " 

"  My  dear  Claude,  you  are  foolish.  The  only 
question  to  be  asked  is, '  Ought  one  to  grieve  ?  '  if 
the  answer  be  yes,  then  one  must  show  some 
semblance  of  grief.  It  is  the  proper  thing,  and 
heretofore  I  have  looked  on  you  as  the  Apostle 
of  Propriety." 

A  change  came  over  Claude's  face  as  he  lis 
tened,  and  when  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  ceased,  he 
was  looking  at  her  as  one  who  was  realizing  her 
for  the  first  time. 

"  And  one  thing  I  must  beg  of  you,"  she  went 
on  more  coldly,  if  that  were  possible  ;  "  it  is  that 


94  JOHN  FACET. 

you  will  not  disturb  the  child's  religious  faith. 
Women  ought  to  be  religious." 

Claude  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room, 
then,  throwing  his  cigar  into  the  fire,  faced  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster.  "  I  am  going  to  astonish  you,"  he 
said.  "  I  announce  to  you  as  guardian,  that  I  am 
going  to  marry  Beatrice." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  looked  at  him  a  moment. 
"  Love  at  first  sight,"  she  said  ;  "  you  who  laugh 
at  love  ?  " 

"  Call  it  what  you  please,  but  you  cannot 
object.  From  a  worldly  standpoint  you  can  ask 
nothing  better  for  the  girl.  It  is  quite  out  of 
line  with  all  my  plans  of  life,  still  I  am  going  to 
do  it." 

"And  John?" 

"  All  I  ask  is  a  fair  field." 

"Will  you  tell  him?" 

"  No.  I  tell  you  because  the  girl  was  left  to 
you.  If,  as  you  seem  to  say,  John  loves  her,  he 
will  realize  my  attitude  before  many  days." 

"  Do  you  not  agree  that  he  loves  her  ?  " 

"  If  he  does,  the  girl  does  not  know  it,  and  has 
only  awe  for  him.  But  you  are  free  to  do  as  you 
please  in  the  matter.  I  know  I  will  win  her." 
Then  Claude  left  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  sat  looking  into  the  fire. 

Carter  Wilton's  daughter  to  be  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  J 


VI. 

"  For  some  ships  safe  in  port,  indeed, 

Rot  and  rust, 

Run  to  dust, 

All  through  worms  i'  the  wood  which  crept, 
Gnawed  our  hearts  out  while  we  slept  ; 

That  is  worse." 

FTOW  do  you  do?"  and  dropping  the  portiere, 
1 1  a  woman  entered  who  would  impress  the 
most  casual  observer  as  being  perfectly  finished. 
Nobody  who  knew  Marjorie  Van  Kuyster  could 
ever  think  of  her  as  having  a  button  off  her  glove 
or  shoe,  or  her  bonnet-strings  awry,  or  with  an 
umbrella  that  was  not  the  perfection  of  smoothly 
rolled  slimness. 

"Don't  let  me  disturb  you" — holding  out  her 
hand  to  John,  who  had  risen.  "You  are  Mr. 
Paget";  then,  touching  Claude  on  the  shoulder, 
she  went  round  to  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster.  "  I  thought 
I  would  step  in,  cousin,  and  see  your  condition." 

"Thank  you,  Marjorie,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
answered,  while  a  place  was  arranged  for  Miss 
Van  Kuyster;  "and  this  is  my  cousin,  Beatrice 
Wilton ;  I  am  her  guardian,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  Claude  told  me.  You  find  New  York 
dreadfully  cold,  do  not  you?"  to  Beatrice. 

"Yes;  I  think  my  frocks  are  too  thin." 

95 


$6  JOHN  PAGET. 

"How  nice  of  you,"  Marjorie  answered,  "to 
blame  your  gowns  and  not  the  climate  !  "  Then 
to  Claude  :  "  How  are  you  after  your  Washington 
outing?" 

"  I  had  a  frightfully  stupid  time.  But  then 
you  know,  Marjie,  that  only  one  place  in  America 
is  thoroughly  civilized,  and  that  is  New  York." 

"  I  don't  know  it  at  all.  I  adore  both  Wash 
ington  and  Philadelphia." 

"And  I  am  devoted  to  Boston,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster. 

"After  a  life  spent  in  training  you  two," 
Claude  said,  "  is  this  my  reward — to  have  you 
adoring  such  provincialisms  and  crudities  as 
those  names  suggest  ?  " 

"Washington  is  so  spontaneous  and  unique," 
Marjorie  said,  "and  Philadelphia  is  so  conserva 
tive  and  self-contained,  and  altogether  so  different 
from  any  other  place  in  the  world." 

"  Thank  God  for  that !  "  Claude  answered  fer 
vently.  "  I  suppose  the  mater  will  repeat  all 
that  and  tack  it  on  to  Boston,  and  Jack  can  say 
it  of  any  wilderness  or  prairie  in  the  far  South. 
I  think  I  must  begin  to  train  Beatrice;  I  am  sure 
she  will  make  me  a  better  return." 

"  I  will  like  any  place  that  is  not  cold,"  she 
answered. 

"  Then  you  are  safe  against  any  of  these  places. 
As  for  Washington,"  Claude  went  on,  "  I  always 
think  of  it  as  a  great  menagerie  where  every  idea 
of  the  '  Eternal  Fitness '  is  shocked.  I  suppose 


JOHN  PA  GET.  97 

that  is  what  Marjie  means  by  •  spontaneous.' 
Fancy  Buckingham  Palace  or  Marlborough  House 
with  towels  hanging  out  of  the  windows  !  " 

"  The  simplicity  of  a  great  Republic,"  John 
said.  "Given  the  window  and  the  sun,  and  what 
more  fit  than  that  a  towel  should  be  hung  there  ?  " 

"  Exactly,"  Claude  answered,  "  and  the  Royal 
family  wash  in  the  shrubberies." 

"Eminently  practical,"  John  returned. 

"  And  supremely  simple,"  Marjorie  added,  "  and 
quite  the  correct  thing  in  this  country,  where  all 
are  free  and  equal,  where  any  Bridget  or  Sukey 
can  say  to  a  member  of  the  elect  '  Four  Hundred,' 
'Are  you  the  woman  who  want  a  lady  to  cook 
for  you?'  We  shall  have  to  do  our  own  laundry 
work  presently,  and  you  may  be  sure,  Claude, 
that  I  shall  hang  my  things  out  of  the  front 
window,  as  that  is  the  sunny  side  of  the  house." 

"  If  there  had  been  an  English  general  with 
any  sense  on  this  side  the  water,"  Claude  went 
on,  "the  miserable  little  sixpenny  Revolution 
would  have  been  ended  in  a  jiffy,  and  we  should 
have  been  under  a  respectable  government  still. 
As  it  is,  we  have  demoralized  the  world,  and  all 
that  I  see  ahead  of  humanity  is  abject  slavery." 

"You  are  talking  nonsense,"  Marjorie  said. 
"This  is  the  freest  country  in  the  world." 

"  On  the  ground  that  there  is  no  freedom  save 
in  obedience,"  John  said,  "  Claude  is  right." 

"  That  is  not  my  ground  exactly,"  Claude 
answered  ;  "  but  all  know  that  there  is  no  such 


98  JOHN  PA  GET. 

slavery  as  mob  rule.  In  a  country  where  caste 
is  recognized,  so  many  laws  are  not  necessary, 
for  each  man  knows  his  place,  and  the  friction  is 
immensely  reduced." 

"  But  there  are  blacker  slums,"  Marjorie  sug 
gested. 

"  America  can  show  slums  with  any  country," 
Claude  answered.  "  And  think  of  the  freedom 
where  there  are  States  in  which  a  gentleman 
cannot  have  a  glass  of  wine  on  his  table,  and 
of  other  sections  where  a  man  may  have  twenty 
wives,  and  more,  if  he  likes  ;  where  Marjorie  can 
have  me  arrested  for  managing  my  horse,  and  I 
can  have  her  remonstrated  with  for  wearing  bird- 
wings  in  her  hat.  We  are  so  free  that  training 
has  become  obsolete,  and  everything,  living  and 
dead,  has  to  be  protected  by  a  thousand  laws." 

"  This  excited  tone,  Claude,  almost  proves 
your  theory  of  the  lack  of  training,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  said  ;  "  I  have  not  seen  you  so  animated 
in  years." 

Claude  laughed.  "  You  are  quite  right,  and 
there  are  very  few  things  in  life  worth  an  extra 
beat  of  the  pulse." 

"  There  are  things  that  I  would  die  for,"  John 
answered.  "  I  am  interested  in  this  talk,  even. 
I  think  you  have  touched  on  the  poisoning  evil 
of  these  days — the  lack  of  training.  All  are 
allowed  to  develop  ;  hence,  principle  is  almost 
unknown,  and  law  has  to  come  to  the  rescue. 
And  this  age  seems  to  be  extremely  sensitive, 


JOHN  PA  GET.  99 

and  a  maudlin  sentimentality  is  going  far  to 
pauperize  about  half  the  nation.  '  If  a  man  do 
not  work,  neither  shall  he  eat.'  I  believe  in 
hanging  for  murder;  the  penitentiary  for  all 
kinds  of  stealing ;  ducking  and  flogging  for 
drunkenness ;  stocks  for  scolds,  and  whipping  for 
children.  I  go  so  far,"  he  went  on,  looking  at 
Marjorie  with  a  smile,  "  as  to  shake  hands  with 
the  old  la\v  that  still  obtains  in  South  Carolina, 
which  forbids  divorce,  but  permits  a  man  to  whip 
his  wife,  provided  the  stick  be  no  bigger  than  his 
thumb." 

"  You  are  a  barbarian,"  Marjorie  said,  "and  I 
thought  from  the  cut  of  your  coat  that  you  were 
a  benevolent  clergyman  who  would  want  us  to 
give  all  our  goods  to  feed  the  poor." 

"Need  clergymen  be  sentimental?"  John 
asked.  "  Will  you  not  allow  us  to  be  men  with 
common  sense?  " 

"  With  pleasure  ;  but  the  type  is  new  to  me, 
that  is  all." 

"  Maybe  your  search  has  not  been  very  ex 
tended." 

"  Perhaps  I  have  not  put  the  same  zeal  into  it 
that  I  would  put  into  the  search  for  a  good  dress 
maker,"  she  answered,  laughing,  "  but  I  have 
known  a  good  many  clergymen.  The  religion  of 
to-day  seems  to  me  to  be  degenerating  into  a 
sort  of  kindergarten  arrangement,  with  athletic 
attachments  to  the  churches.  It  is  not  good. 
When  you  have  to  pamper  and  pay  people  to 


100  JOHN  PA  GET. 

come  to  church,  the  system  must  be  very  rotten. 
I  think  the  old  times,  when  people  were  burned 
because  they  went  to  church,  were  much  more 
wholesome.  At  least  it  was  genuine." 

"  Immensely  so  to  the  victim."  Claude  said. 
"Suppose  it  had  been  you?" 

"  Never,  my  dear  Claude  !  I  am  one  of  Mr. 
Paget's  unprincipled  Americans — threaten  me 
with  an  attack  of  neuralgia,  and  I  would  give  up 
anything.  The  '  correct  thing,'  '  The  fashion,' 
'  expediency  ' — these  are  my  principles,  and  I 
flourish." 

"  I  have  seen  you  torture  yourself  for  the  '  cor 
rect  thing,'  "  said  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster. 

"  Of  course,  but  it  pays  ;  and  when  it  ceases  to 
pay,  I  let  it  alone.  For  instance,  I  am  tired  of 
dancing,  so  am  ceasing  to  exert  myself  for  dan 
cing  acquaintances;  meanwhile,  I  cultivate  the 
dinner  and  lunch  people.  I  used  to  be  a  Sun 
day-school  teacher,  it  looked  well  in  a  young  girl; 
in  an  old  maid  that  sort  of  thing  looks  lonely, 
and  I  have  stopped  it." 

"  Do  you  call  yourself  an  old  maid,  my  dear  ?  " 
Claude  asked. 

"  If  I  did  not,  other  people  would,  and  I  worry 
some  of  them  by  taking  their  stings  out." 

"Why  not  spoil  their  fun  by  marrying?" 

"You  always  say  such  nice  things,  Claude," 
looking  at  him  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes.  "  Of 
course  because  I  do  not  want  to.  All  the  same, 
I  am  going  to  write  a  love  story  in  which  the 


JOHN  PA  GET.  10 1 

woman,  in  a  moment  of  temporary  insanity,  casts 
away  the  love  of  her  life  !  The  rest  of  the  book 
will  be  a  harrowing  picture  of  her  regrets.  And, 
Claude- 

"Well?" 

"  Many  men  will  embalm  that  book,  each  think- 
ing  himself  the  hero.  I  will  immediately  loom 
into  '  a  masked  life' — a  '  mysterious  wreck.' 
All  this  from  the  men  ;  do  you  see  how  I  revenge 
myself  on  the  women?" 

"What  an  awful  fraud  you  are,"  Claude  said, 
while  the  company  laughed. 

"  But  successful ;  what  deadlier  blow  could  I 
deal  a  woman  who  after  a  long  chase  has  bagged 
her  game,  than  to  have  this  game  look  senti 
mentally  at  zpass^  old  maid?" 

"  A  truly  fiendish  revenge." 

"But  why  so  down  on  your  own  sex?" 
asked  John. 

"  Woman  is  woman's  natural  prey,"  Marjorie 
answered,  and,  as  they  left  the  lunch  table,  she 
put  her  hand  through  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's  arm 
and  led  her  to  the  study. 

"Your  girl  is  beautiful,"  she  said,  "and  Mr. 
Paget  most  effective." 

"Yes;  only  I  think  John  is  handsome." 

"  He  is,  but  the  strength  struck  me  first.  His 
eyes  are  fine  ;  so  grave,  don't  you  know,  yet  not 
solemn." 

"  They  are  like  his  father's,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
went  on,  "  my  brother,  who  brought  me  up." 


102  JOHN  FACET. 

"And  you  left  him  for  Cousin  Jacob?"  and 
Marjorie  looked  at  the  elder  woman  with  a 
gleam  of  amusement  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes.     But  what  about  the  sewing  woman?" 

"  She  will  come  in  the  morning,  and  you  may 
leave  everything  to  her." 

"  Thank  you,  that  is  just  what  I  want.  The 
child's  clothes  are  not  nice  enough  even  to  go  to 
the  tailor  in,  so  something  must  be  done  first  at 
home." 

"  Exactly  ;  but  I  am  in  love  with  the  child, 
and  so  are  your  young  men.  I  have  never  seen 
Claude  as  animated  as  he  was  to-day,  but  he  was 
never  so  much  interested  as  to  overlook  her 
slightest  want  ;  and  she  so  exquisitely  uncon 
scious." 

"  It  promises  to  be  interesting,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  answered. 

Marjorie  looked  at  her  keenly.  "  So  ?  "  she 
said,  and  rose.  "  You  may  look  for  me  often  ; 
your  household  is  pleasant." 

"  Always  glad  to  see  you.  We  are  in  half- 
mourning,  you  know  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Claude  explained.  He  was  upset — he 
did  not  know  what  to  expect." 

"Claude  is  immensely  selfish,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuy 
ster  answered,  "and  I  do  not  think  that  he  will 
ever  realize  it,  for  he  has  money  enough  to  gratify 
every  whim." 

"  Let  us  hope  he  will  desire  something  that 
money  cannot  buy  :  there  are  such  things." 


JOHN  FACET.  103 

"  I  know  :  I  have  always  had  money,  and  never 
had  anything  I  really  wanted.  Food  and  rai 
ment  of  course,  and  loads  of  other  non-essen 
tials  ;  but  the  real  wants  are  things  that  no 
wealth  can  compass." 

Miss  Van  Kuyster  looked  thoughtful.  "  That 
has  always  puzzled  me,"  she  said.  "  If  you  had 
married  for  money — but  you  did  not." 

"  No,  I  did  not" — opening  the  study  door  for 
her  guest. 

"  And  you  had  position,  and  beauty,  and 
youth,"  Marjorie  went  on  cautiously.  "  What  did 
you  lack  ?  " 

"  Sense,"  the  elder  woman  answered  with  a 
smile. 

"  Good-by,"  Marjorie  said. 

"Good-by,"  and  with  the  lightest  of  cheek 
touches  and  a  little  sound  of  the  lips  made  in  the 
air,  they  parted. 

"What  has  happened?"  Marjorie  wondered 
as  she  drove  away.  "  I  have  never  dared  men 
tion  her  miserable  life  to  her  until  to-day.  I 
have  always  likened  her  to  a  fire  in  an  ice  box. 
Something  has  frozen  the  fire.  And  will  she  lift 
no  guiding  hand  to  that  play  beginning  in  her 
house — will  she  watch  it  as  a  play?" 


VII. 

"  Alas,  poor  soul  possest ! 
Yet  would  to-day  when  courtesy  grows  chill 
And  life's  fine  loyalties  are  turned  to  jest, 
Some  fire  of  thine  might  burn  within  us  still  ! 
Ah,  would  but  one  might  lay  his  lance  in  rest, 
And  charge  in  earnest — were  it  but  a  mill  !  " 

V\  TILL  you  walk  down  to  the  club,  Jack  ?  " 
VV    They  were  standing  near  the    fire    in   the 
drawing  room,  the  only  other  occupant  of  which 
was  Beatrice. 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  to,"  John  answered  ;  "  I  will 
get  my  gloves." 

"And  what  are  you  thinking  of?"  Claude 
asked,  approaching  the  silent  girl,  who  looked 
very  doleful. 

"  Home  and  the  roses,"  and  the  eyes  she  lifted 
were  suspiciously  dewy.  "  Then  all  are  so  clever, 
and  talk  so  fast,  that  I  do  not  understand  the 
half  that  is  said  ;  of  course  I  am  stupid,  too." 

"  Poor  little  co'usin,"  and  Claude  lifted  her  face 
still  higher  by  putting  his  finger  under  her  chin. 
"  We  did  chatter  like  magpies,  and  with  about  as 
much  point.  I  will  tell  it  all  to  you  some  day. 
As  to  home  and  roses  " — taking  her  two  hands 
and  putting  them  together  in  his — "you  must  not 
cry  about  them,  you  break  me  all  up." 


JOHN  PA  GET.  105 

Beatrice  shook  her  head  hopelessly. 

"  Crying  will  spoil  your  eyes.  If  you  will  be 
very  good,  I  will  give  you  all  the  roses  you  want. 
I  will  bring  you  some  to-day.  Better  still ;  there 
is  a  conservatory  to  this  house,  which  the  mater 
shut  up  for  some  inscrutable  reason.  It  shall  be 
done  over  for  you." 

"  You  are  very  good  to  me  ;  but — it  will  be  so 
much  trouble." 

"  A  pleasure.  There  comes  Jack,  and  I  must 
go  :  watch  for  me  and  the  roses.  If  no  one  has 
given  you  any  orders,  I  tell  you  to  go  to  sleep," 
and  nodding,  he  was  gone. 

"Shall  I  put  your  name  up  at  the  club?" 
Claude  asked  as  they^  walked  briskly  down  the 
street. 

"  I  scarcely  think  it  worth  while,  thank  you ; 
I  will  have  no  time.  Besides,  I  do  not  know  that 
it  would  be  wholesome  for  the  club  to  have  a 
slummer,  or  the  slummer  to  have  a  club." 

"  Oh,  the  clergy  patronize  the  clubs,  I  assure 
you,"  Claude  answered,  "  and  find  them  very 
respectable,  not  to  say  fascinating." 

"  Doubtless,  but  where  do  they  find  the  time?" 

"  They  are  systematic  and  have  all  sorts  of 
machinery  ;  assistants,  and  superintendents,  and 
readers,  and  brigades  of  women  in  various  ca 
pacities.  I  have  studied  the  church  question," 
he  added  ;  "  I  wanted  to  find  out  where  the  weak 
ness  lay — I  was  curious." 

"And  where  is  the  weakness?" 


106  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  In  humanity,  I  think." 

"  Whose  humanity — clergy  or  laity  ?  " 

"Both.  The  laity  are  so  human  that  they  do 
not  enjoy  being  bored  to  death,  so  they  put  their 
hands  into  their  pockets  and  make  religion  as 
inviting  as  money  can,  with  handsome  churches 
and  beautiful  music,  and,  if  possible,  an  eloquent 
man,  who  is  also  a  gentleman.  For  he  must  be  a 
person  whom  they  can  ask  to  dinner." 

"  If  that  is  all,"  John  asked,  "  why  do  you  have 
any  religion  ?  " 

"Well,"  Claude  answered,  as  if  thinking,  "it 
does  seem  a  little  pointless,  but  it  is  the  custom, 
and  violent  revolutions  are  troublesome.  I  do 
not  remember  any  that  have  been  great  comforts 
or  successes." 

"That  depends  on  the  point  of  view.  But 
to  return  ;  how  does  the  clergyman's  humanity 
come  in  ?" 

"Why,  he  likes  it  and  wants  to  keep  his  com 
fortable  position.  To  do  this  he  must  keep  his 
church  full  of  paying  people,  for  even  in  the  free 
system  the  expenses  must  be  paid.  To  accom 
plish  this  he  must  keep  his  mind  and  body  in 
good  order  to  preach  the  eloquent  sermons,  and 
must  have  time  to  keep  up  with  the  world  and 
its  fads.  So  he  organizes  a  system  of  assistants, 
and  readers,  and  superintendents,  and  women." 

John  struck  his  stick  sharply  on  the  pavement. 

"Why,  my  dear  fellow,"  Claude  went  on, 
"  there  is  as  much  competition  among  the 


JOHN  FACET.  107 

churches  as  among  the  shops.  They  rush  after 
customers  in  the  same  manner,  and  they  look 
the  other  way  when  a  brother  clergyman  has  to 
advise  his  people  to  sell  the  church  and  move 
farther  up  town  in  order  to  pay  expenses.  So  you 
see  all  this  organization  is  necessary  ;  they  are 
in  a  sense  '  drummers  '  for  the  different  parishes." 

Again  John  struck  his  stick  on  the  pavement. 
"  If  they  would  only  realize,"  he  said  sharply, 
"  that  one  man  who  killed  himself  with  over 
work  would  be  worth  a  hundred  well  organized 
parishes." 

"  Rather  heroic  treatment,  especially  for  the 
dead  clergyman,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  it  would 
do  any  good.  The  world  is  grown  cheerfully 
cold,  and  practical,  and  critical.  Civilized,  in 
short,  and  enthusiasm  and  heroics  are  not  good 
form." 

"  It  is  not  heroics  I  mean,"  John  answered. 
"An  earnestness  that  means  death,  and  an  en 
thusiasm  that  means  crucifixion,  would  be  bound 
to  have  an  effect.  A  man  who  would  give  his 
life — not  sell  a  portion  of  it  for  so  many  dollars 
and  cents,  but  give  his  very  life  for  the  love  of 
the  Christ,  could  make  this  city,  you  think  so  cool 
and  critical,  burn  with  a  fire  of  enthusiasm. 
Work  day  and  night,  if  need  be,  anywhere  that 
work  is  to  be  done,  and  when  the  time  came  to 
preach  the  soul  would  speak ;  and  always  soul 
answers  to  soul,"  and  the  eyes  that  looked  into 
Claude's  were  burning. 


108  JOHN  PA  GET. 

.  Claude  looked  away.  "And  kill  himself  in  a 
year,"  he  said.  "  I  had  a  friend,  we  were  class 
mates  ;  he  went  in  for  that  sort  of  thing.  He 
broke  down  in  six  months." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  He  lives  in  Europe  now  for  his  health." 

"  He  should  have  died  between  the  plow- 
handles!  So  many  look  on  themselves  as  being 
necessary,  that  they  think  they  must  take  care  of 
themselves.  If  they  have  any  faith  at  all,  they 
ought  to  believe  that  the  Almighty  will  take  care 
of  his  own  tools.  It  reminds  me  of  the  old 
woman  who  said  when  her  horse  ran  away — '  I 
trusted  in  Providence  till  the  breechin'  broke, 
then  I  jumped  out.'  ' 

Claude  laughed.  "  And  you  intend  to  kill 
yourself  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  God  helping  me,  I  will  die  in  harness.  But 
do  not  think" — turning  quickly  to  face  his  brother 
— "  do  not  think  for  a  moment  that  I  hold  my 
self  worthy  to  do  it.  I  would  not  have  you 
dream  such  a  thing !  My  life  has  been  absolutely 
misspent ;  evil  in  every  direction.  There  is  no 
sin,  save  perhaps  lying  and  stealing,  which  a 
gentleman  cannot  do,  you  know,  that  I  have  not 
committed.  Murder;  aye  and  worse,"  lowering 
his  voice.  "  I  did  my  best  to  commit  murder, 
but  a  woman  made  them  throw  me  down  and  tie 
me.  I  take  no  credit  that  my  hands  are  not 
bloodstained,  for  I  did  my  best.  You  see,"  look 
ing  into  Claude's  face  wistfully,  "  I  grew  up  on 


JOffiV  PA  GET.  109 

the  border.  I  was  poor,  and  at  certain  seasons  I 
could  make  a  good  deal  of  money  by  going  on 
cattle  drives  as  a  cowboy — they  were  a  hard  lot. 
Between  the  seasons  I  studied,  and  at  the  last 
Carter's  life  overcame  me." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  and  Claude's  voice  had  lost 
its  slight  drawl,  "  I  understand  perfectly,  and  I 
like  you  infinitely  better.  I  systematically  avoid 
young  clergymen  ;  they  are — well — clammy  ;  and 
I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  had  a  dread  of  you. 
Now " 

"  Now  that  you  find  me  to  have  been  a  licen 
tious,  blasphemous  ruffian,"  John  struck  in,  "you 
have  more  faith  in  me.  It  is  always  so,  but 
why  ?  " 

"  Because  a  man  is  a  man,  and  a  woman  is  a 
woman,  and  a  tough  is  a  tough,  and  you  can 
classify  them,  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  you  can  classify 
a  clergyman — I  mean  the  usual  run  of  them. 
For  the  different  parties  seem  to  mean  different 
things,  and  few  of  them  seem  to  mean — I  scarcely 
know  what  to  call  it." 

"A  consecrated  life,"  John  suggested. 

"  Exactly.  Some  make  it  ridiculous  by  looking 
as  much  like  early  Christian  art  as  possible  ;  but 
they  are  more  logical  than  the  other  party  who 
try  to  secularize  themselves.  Men  of  the  world 
don't  respect  that  sort  of  thing,  far  from  it ;  but 
we  do  ask  that  whatever  a  man  is,  or  thinks  him 
self,  let  him  be  that  thing  really.  I  would  like 
much  better  a  bigot  who  tried  to  burn  me  for 


HO  JOHN  FACET. 

my  unbelief,  than  these  men  who  offer  a  com 
promise  on  every  point.  Your  man  who  would 
kill  himself  all  the  week  in  the  slums,  and  poke 
hell-fire  at  us  on  Sunday,  would  have  some  grit 
at  least." 

"  And  yet  you  say  that  such  a  man  would  do 
no  good." 

"  Maybe  not,  but  at  least  we  would  know 
what  he  would  be  at.  We  could  classify  him  ; 
a  great  thing  in  a  scientific  age.  Further,  we 
could  believe  that  he  believed  what  he  preached. 
Bad  as  we  are,  we  outside  heathen  have  an  ideal 
of  priests,  filled  with  divine  joys  and  visions — 
living  far  above  this  world,  save  as  they  come 
down  to  minister  to  sorrow  and  pity  sin.  Think 
of  an  early  Christian  martyr  playing  billiards  in 
a  cutaway  coat,  or  smoking  in  a  club.  They 
smoked,  but  differently.  You  .cannot  better  a 
thief  by  helping  him  to  steal,  nor  elevate  a  beg 
gar  by  sleeping  with  him  in  the  gutter.  If  the 
Church  is  anything,  then  these  men  are  priests; 
and  if  priests  they  ought  to  be  '  set  apart.'  They 
had  better  rise  so  high  as  to  be  out  of  sight  than 
descend  to  our  level.  Take  this  from  a  man  of 
the  world,  and  I  don't  think  that  I  am  much  off 
the  average.  You  are  the  first  clergyman  to 
whom  I  have  ever  spoken  my  mind." 

"  Thank  you,"  John  answered.  "  I  will  re 
member.  Now  I  must  get  the  other  side  of  the 
picture.  There  is  another  side,  of  course." 

A  few  men  were  standing  about   in  the  club, 


JOHN  FACET.  Ill 

to  one  or  two  of  whom  Claude  introduced  his 
brother,  then  watched  a  little  anxiously  to  see 
how  he  would  demean  himself  in  this  new  sphere  ; 
for  a  fashionable  club  must  be  a  new  sphere  to 
John.  In  ten  minutes  Claude  said  to  himself, 
"  He  is  clubable,"  and  felt  his  spirits  rise.  A 
man  was  talking  now  whom  Claude  had  never 
heard  talk  before.  From  weather  to  climate,  to 
health,  to  heredity  they  had  gone,  and  in  an 
aside  a  listener  said  to  Claude :  "It's  a  beastly 
shame  your  brother  goes  into  the  Church,  he  is 
far  too  clever." 

Claude  laughed.  "  Don't  you  think  the  Church 
needs  clever  men  ?  " 

"  Awfully  ;  but  they  can't  get  'em.  A  clever 
man  can't  believe  all  that  stuff,  don't  you  know." 

"  My  brother  believes  it  to  the  extent  of  fagot 
and  stake." 

"  Gad  !  "  his  friend  said  lightly.  "  But  listen, 
he's  preaching  now,  and  of  all  men,  to  Tilly." 

Claude  pulled  his  mustache  with  some  specu 
lation  in  his  eyes,  and  a  slight  line  gathering 
between  his  brows. 

"  It  is  a  terrific  thing  to  realize,"  John  was 
saying;  "it  is  hopeless,  immutable.  'The  sins 
shall  be  visited  on  the  children  unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generation.'  You  commit  the  sin,  and 
your  children  pay  the  penalty ;  it  is  in  their  blood 
and  character.  It  is  a  frightful  thought,  but  we 
cannot  sin  to  ourselves  alone,  or  bear  all  our  own 
punishment." 


H2  JOHN  FACET. 

Claude  took  out  his  watch.  "  If  we  are  to  go 
to  the  tailor's,  Jack,"  he  said  in  the  pause  that 
followed  John's  words,  "  we  have  just  time  to 
make  it  in." 

"  Thanks,  I  do  want  to  go,"  and  they  went 
away  to  the  fashionable  place  where  Claude's 
perfect  garments  were  made. 

"  Remember,"  Claude  said  as  they  entered, 
"the  mater  has  given  you  unlimited  credit  here, 
and  this  fellow  can  furnish  you  entirely." 

"But  I  do  not  like  this,"  John  said,  coloring 
slightly,  "  I  am  able 

"  Doubtless,"  Claude  interrupted,  "  but  you  are 
the  mater's  heir.  I  tell  you  this  to  set  your  mind 
at  rest.  You  are  the  last  Paget,  and  she  has 
bought  the  old  place  for  you,  and  all  the  old  silver, 
and  everything  that  she  could  lay  her  hands  on 
that  ever  was  a  Paget's.  For  me  I  am  bound  to 
perpetuate  the  name  of  Van  Kuyster ;  but  if  I 
know  anything,  one  of  my  sons  shall  take  my 
father's  name." 

Having  handed  John  over  to  the  shop-people, 
Claude  turned  again  toward  the  door,  promising 
to  be  back  very  soon,  realizing  at  the  same  mo 
ment  how  astonishingly  eager  he  was  to  reach 
the  florist's.  Beatrice  had  bewitched  him. 

He  got  exquisite  roses,  and,  late  as  it  was,  he 
gave  orders  that  the  florist  should  send  his  people 
at  once  to  look  into  the  condition  of  the  con 
servatory,  and  to  put  the  flowers  in  before  lunch 
the  next  day.  Then  he  returned  to  the  tialor's. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  H3 

He  was  immensely  amused  at  himself.  His 
ideal  civilized  man  must  be  absolutely  calm  and 
rational ;  impulses,  and  emotions,  and  eccentrici 
ties  were  bad  form.  Matrimony  and  love,  as 
usually  practiced,  were  vulgar.  A  civilized  mar- 
riage  must  be  nothing  more  than  an  alliance 
made  with  calm,  critical  discretion,  based  on  re 
spect,  equality,  and  forbearance.  And  behold ! 
A  simple  child  had  thrown  him  completely  off 
his  balance.  For  nearly  twenty-four  hours  he 
had  been  acting  solely  and  entirely  from  impulse, 
and  was  discovering  the  most  vivid  emotions  in 
every  direction.  It  was  his  Southern  blood  that 
was  to  blame  ;  it  could  be  nothing  else.  It  was 
little  short  of  absurd  that  after  years  of  care 
ful  training  of  himself,  after  years  of  preaching 
to  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  on  the  total  depravity  of 
impulse  and  emotion,  he  should  come  to  this. 
To  fall  so  low  that  his  disciple  laughed  at  him  as 
she  had  done  the  evening  before. 

"  And  to-morrow,"  John  finished,  as  the  cab 
stopped,  "  I  must  see  Dr.  Ratcliffe,  and  arrange 
for  work."  Claude  wondered  if  he  had  been  talk 
ing  slums  all  the  way  home.  "Yes,"  he  an 
swered,  "  we  can  go  before  lunch,"  and  looking  up, 
as  he  turned  from  paying  the  cab,  he  caught  the 
outline  of  a  girlish  figure  behind  the  lace  of  the 
drawing  room  window.  It  would  be  wise  to  get 
John  settled  to  something. 

"A  man  has  been  here  to  look  at  the  conserv 
atory,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said  to  Claude,  when 


U4  JOHN  PA  GET. 

as  usual  they  were  having  their  last  words  by  the 
study  fire.  "  You  sent  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  want  it  rearranged  for  Beatrice.  You 
have  no  objection  ?  " 

"  None,"  with  a  smile  that  Claude  did  not 
think  pleasant.  "  And  you  have  not  changed 
your  mind  since  last  night  ?  " 

"  Am  I  so  changeable  ?  " 

"  Yes,  or  rather,  you  are  contrary.  You  would 
go  through  fire  and  water  for  anything,  if  fire 
and  water  opposed  you  ;  but  the  thing  once  yours 
you  begin  to  pick  flaws  in  it.  Beatrice  has  cap 
tured  your  fancy,  and  in  John  you  see  a  rival. 
Let  John  leave  the  field,  and  Beatrice  tumble 
into  your  arms,  and " 

"What?" 

"  I  should  be  sorry  for  Beatrice." 

Claude  laughed.  "You  are  a  clever  woman," 
he  said.  "  Why  have  you  not  done  more  in  this 
world  ?  " 

"  Environment." 

"  You  chose  your  environment  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  you  will  choose  yours.  I  envy  those 
people  who  have  been  strong  enough  to  let  duty 
and  not  desire  make  their  place  in  life  for  them. 
In  the  end  they  are  better  off.  For  you,"  tap 
ping  on  the  table  with  her  pen-handle,  "  you 
seem  to  have  no  duty  to  direct  you,  unless  you 
make  this  girl  love  you.  I  have  always  thought 
it  fortunate  that  you  had  trained  yourself  into  a 
perfectly  practical  view  of  life  ;  not  a  high  view, 


JOHN  FACET.  115 

but  a  safe  one.  Now,  you  are  making  a  danger 
ous  experiment." 

"  And  yet  you  permit  it." 

"  Permit  it  !  opposition  would  determine  you 
as  nothing  else  could.  And  ^Beatrice  will  also 
want  to  break  her  heart  her  own  way ;  nothing 
else  ever  satisfies  humanity." 

"  And  after  the  break  ?  " 

"Some  have  the  sense  to  gather  up  the  frag 
ments  and  make  a  compromise.  Some  spend  the 
rest  of  their  little  span  in  breaking  each  fragment 
separately.  Some  go  to  the  bad." 

"And  Beatrice?" 

"  Will  grind  each  fragment  to  powder,  to  the 
refrain,  '  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is.'  Her  con 
ventual  training  will  come  in,  you  see,  with  pen 
ance  and  the  rest  as  wheelhorses." 

"  You  take  a  cheerful  view  of  things." 

"  The  truth  is  seldom  cheerful.  But  remem 
ber,  if  you  win  Beatrice  you  must  stand  to  it; 
and  as  I  have  no  doubt  of  your  success,  I  will  lay 
before  you  my  plans  for  her." 

"Thanks." 

"  I  have  to-day  engaged  teachers  for  her  in 
French,  German,  music,  and  dancing — all  women." 

"  Most  wise." 

"  Of  course.  I  could  not  spend  my  life  keeping 
guard  over  masters.  She  will  exercise  at  the 
riding  club  two  afternoons  in  the  week.  Her 
house  dresses  for  the  present  will  be  white  ;  her 
street  dresses,  black.  We  will  let  her  be  seen  a 


Il6  JOHN  PA  GET. 

little  in  Newport  this  summer  ;  next  winter  she 
will  come  out.  Finally,  I  have  engaged  an 
elderly  woman  as  attendant." 

"  Admirable  !     And  John  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Houston  comes  to-morrow  to  turn  over 
to  him  The  Oaks,  and  all  the  income  that  has 
accrued ;  when  I  die,  I  will  leave  him  all  that  I 
can.  For  the  rest,  he  has  withdrawn  all  influence 
from  Beatrice,  apparently  all  interest.  I  do  not 
understand  him." 

"I  believe  I  do,  and,  accepting  your  parable,  I 
think  that  he  is  now  busy  smashing  all  the  frag 
ments  of  a  rather  wild  life,  which  he  seems  to  feel 
called  upon  to  repent.  Why,  God  only  knows; 
and  is  going  to  show  his  repentance  by  killing 
himself  in  the  slums.  If  he  loves  Beatrice,  I  do 
not  see  how  he  intends  working  her  into  his  plans 
unless  they  both  join  the  Salvation  Army." 


VIII. 

"  Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only  this 
After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years." 

'TT  is  inhumanly  early,  Jack,"  Claude  said,  rising 
1  reluctantly  from  a  deep  chair  in  front  of  the 
study  fire,  "but  as  it  is  a  clergyman  it  does  not 
matter.  Let  us  go  and  see  the  Reverend 
Ratcliffe." 

"  People  used  to  come  and  see  Carter  from 
dawn  until  midnight,"  John  said.  "  I  suppose 
they  all  thought  'it  does  not  matter  with  a  cler 
gyman.'  ' 

"  Quite  so.  One  does  not  like  to  be  formal 
with  one's  spiritual  adviser.  Suppose  I  should 
have  a  moral  chill  ;  must  I  wait  until  after  lunch 
to  have  my  morals  doctored  ?  " 

It  was  the  morning  after  the  visit  to  the  club, 
and  Claude  was  carrying  out  his  plan  of  putting 
John  to  work  as  soon  as  possible.  John  had  had 
a  long  start  of  him  in  the  affair  of  Beatrice,  and 
though  he  did  not  seem  eager  in  the  pursuit, 
Claude  knew  that  nothing  made  one  so  eager  as 
to  see  another  pursuing. 

"  You  won't  want  the  coup£  before  lunch, 
mother  ?  "  Claude  asked,  as  he  rang  the  bell. 

"  No,  nor  after  lunch.     Marjorie  is  to  be  here 


Il8  JOHN  PA  GET. 

to  see  me  through  some  interviews.  A  sewing 
woman  this  morning;  after  lunch,  Beatrice's 
teachers." 

"  What  a  day  for  you,"  Claude  said,  smiling 
down  on  the  girl  who  sat  near  the  fire.  "  Think 
of  being  pinned  and  basted  all  morning  as  I  have 
seen  the  mater  done,  when  as  a  small  boy  I  used 
to  go  with  her  to  her  dressmaker.  To  go  about 
with  the  mater  was  a  liberal  education.  I  learned 
my  first  installment  of  French  oaths  from  that 
dressmaker." 

"  She  was  dreadful,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  ad 
mitted,  "  but  she  fitted  one  marvelously." 

"  I  never  saw  her  do  anything  but  swear  at  the 
pale,  nervous  woman  who  did  the  work.  I  hope 
that  woman  is  dead,  she  looked  so  tired." 

"  Madame  died  of  absinthe ;  but  in  Beatrice's 
case  Marjorie  will  direct." 

"And  if  she  swears,  Beatrice,"  Claude  said, 
"you  must  be  sure  to  tell  me.  But,  mother,"  he 
went  on,  "/  want  Beatrice  after  lunch.  When 
will  those  teaching  creatures  come?" 

"  At  half  past  three.  By  the  way,  have  you  a 
voice,  Beatrice?  " 

Beatrice  looked  at. John. 

"  She  used  to  sing  to  the  guitar,"  John 
answered. 

"By  Jove!  what  a  find."  And  Claude  sat 
down  close  to  Beatrice.  "  Did  you  bring  your 
guitar?" 

"  No." 


JOHN  PA  GET.  119 

"  You  shall  have  one  by  noon ;  then  we  will 
heat  the  conservatory  to  a  torrid  degree,  and 
play  that  we  are  your  Spanish  ancestors 
singing  down  in  the  tropics.  How  distinctly 
precious  !  " 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  curiously.  "  You  are 
like  a  child,"  she  said,  "always  wanting  to  play 
at  something." 

"  Of  course ;  if  we  do  not  play,  we  might  be 
inveigled  into  work.  I  live  in  terror  of  Jack 
dragging  me  down  to  the  slums.  Fancy  my 
going  among  those  brutes.  I  have  a  theory,  you 
know,  that  by  the  process  of  the  survival  of  the 
fittest,  all  mortals  with  souls  have  risen  and  are 
clean  ;  and  all  without  souls  have  sunk  and  are 
unclean ;  and  that  is  the  reason  why  nothing  can 
be  done  in  the  slums  ;  they  have  no  souls — are 
beasts.  They  ought  to  be  put  out  on  the  plains 
in  droves,  and  'rounded  up'  every  night  by  cow 
boys — clerical  if  you  like — and  put  in  stalls." 

"  There  is  too  much  truth  in  that  nonsense  for 
it  to  be  funny,"  John  said  slowly. 

"  It  is  all  truth.  I  think  there  is  just  as  much 
sense  in  going  out  and  living  with  a  herd  of  cat 
tle,  as  in  going  down  into  the  slums  ;  or  in  work 
ing  on  any  low  caste  people." 

"And  yet,  if  it  be  true  that  suffering  and  pain 
live,  and  that  pleasure  vanishes,"  John  said,  "the 
lives  of  those  'brutes 'are  more  immortal  than 
yours.  The  teaching  is  that  it  is  the  experience 
gathered  from  the  suffering  of  a  generation  that 


120  JOHN  FACET. 

is  handed  on,  and  not  the  pleasures.  That 
Father  Damien's  sufferings,  for  instance,  will  live 
and  help  people  for  generations  ;  but  the  balls  of 
that  year,  the  pleasures,  the  heaped  up  refine 
ment  of  enjoyment — where  are  they  ?  " 

Claude  shook  his  head.  "Where  is  the  flame 
of  last  night's  lamp?"  he  said.  "  I  do  not  know  ; 
but  I  would  rather  be  the  flame  that  vanishes, 
than  the  wick  that  suffers  and  lasts.  I  would 
rather  have  balls  than  leprosy,  and  Spanish  songs 
than  slums." 

Then  they  went  out,  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
and  Beatrice  went  upstairs. 

The  rector  of  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's  place  of 
worship  lived  in  a  handsome  house  on  a  fashion 
able  street,  and,  admittance  being  gained,  the 
interior  was  found  to  be  handsome  also.  Dr. 
Ratcliffe  had  a  guest  in  the  front  parlor,  so  the 
gentlemen  were  shown  into  the  second  parlor, 
which  was  dark  save  for  the  gaslight,  which  per 
mitted  chairs  to  be  found  without  danger. 

"  Our  senior  warden  owned  this  house,"  Claude 
said,  when  the  maid  had  disappeared  with  the 
cards,  "  and  when  the  church  was  moved  up  here, 
he  sold  it  for  a  rectory.  The  improvements  of 
his  own  house,  which  is  next,  shut  up  these  two 
windows  " — pointing  to  two  heavily  curtained 
windows — "  but  as  the  price  was  tremendously 
lowered,  nothing  was  said." 

"  '  As  it  is  a  clergyman,  it  does  not  matter, ' 1 
John  quoted. 


JOHN  PAGET.  121 

Claude  laughed.  "  Very  true,"  he  said  ;  "  still, 
he  is  free  to  resign." 

"  If  there  is  so  much  competition  among  the 
churches,"  John  answered,  "  situations  must  be 
hard  to  get." 

"  '  Situations  '  is  good,"  Claude  said,  "  and  they 
are  very  hard  to  get  until  you  have  made  a  repu 
tation.  Ratcliffe  is  holding  on  to  his  tooth  and 
nail,  for  some  of  the  richest  men  in  the  congrega 
tion  are  tired  of  him,  and  he  knows  it." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  John  said  slowly,  "how  much 
better  to  have  a  place  that  no  one  covets,  and  do 
a  work  that  only  God  pays  for." 

Claude  looked  at  his  brother  curiously,  then 
down  on  the  floor.  "  I  hear  the  parson,"  he 
said. 

"  Here  is  five  dollars,"  came  to  them  in  a  rather 
metallic  voice,  "and  really  I  can  do  no  more  for 
you  until  next  month,  for  there  are  many  de 
mands  on  the  communion  alms.  And  the  books 
I  bought  of  you  for  the  reading  room  are  not 
worth  having." 

"  But,  sir,"  a  low  voice  pleaded,  "  I  can  only 
sell  what  I  can  get  to  sell." 

"  Very  true  ;  but  I  am  responsible  for  the  Guild 
books." 

"  And  I  am  so  old,"  the  low  voice  said  again, 
"  and  this  little  will  not  support  life." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  but  really  I  have  guests 
waiting.  Bridget!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  shuffling  footsteps  and  a 


122  JOHN  PA  GET. 

walking  stick  in  the  hall,  a  shutting  of  doors, 
then  the  rector  entered  with  Claude's  card  in  his 
hand. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Van  Kuyster?  "  and  a  glove  seemed 
to  have  been  drawn  over  the  voice — "  so  glad  to 
see  you." 

"You  are  very  kind  ;  this  is  my  brother,  Mr. 
Paget.  We  seem  to  have  interrupted  the  visit 
of  a  '  dead  beat,'  "  Claude  said,  when  they  had 
been  taken  into  the  front  parlor  and  seated. 

"  No,  only  an  incapable,  the  most  difficult  class 
to  deal  with.  This  man  has  '  seen  better  days,' 
and  is  quite  willing  to  work,  but  knows  nothing 
practical.  Then  he  is  old,  and  age  is  at  a  dis 
count,  Mr.  Van  Kuyster." 

"  Of  course,"  Claude  answered  ;  "  but  of  course 
you  have  plenty  of  work  for  a  young  man.  My 
brother,  here,  is  in  orders." 

"  Ah  ?  "  looking  at  John  curiously. 

"Yes,  and  is  madly  anxious  to  go  a-slumming. 
My  mother  desires  to  turn  him  over  to  you.  We 
do  not  want  him  killed,  however,  because  he  is 
the  only  Paget  heir." 

Dr.  Ratcliffe  looked  puzzled.  "I  did  not 
know  that  you  had  a  brother,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  we  go  so  far  as  to  be  twins,"  Claude 
answered.  "  I  was  adopted  by  my  aunt,  and  took 
the  name  of  Van  Kuyster  ;  my  brother  lived  with 
a  cousin  in  the  far  South,  and  kept  the  family 
name.  As  I  say,  he  is  the  last  of  the  Pagets,  and 
must  be  handled  carefully." 


JOHN  PA  GET.  123 

"  I  would  like  to  say  all  that  a  little  differently," 
John  said,  smiling.  "  I  am  very  anxious  to  see 
the  mission  work  in  the  slums ;  to  assist,  if 
possible.  I  hope  you  are  not  overrun  with 
workers  ?  " 

"  No,  there  is  plenty  of  room  in  that  kind  of 
work — but " 

"  I  will  not  do  for  it?  " 

"Not  at  all;  I  meant  to  say  that  I  could  not 
assist  you  in  that  direction." 

"  What  parish  does  the  slum  work,  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  each  large  church  has  its  mission  chapel 
and  its  guilds.  Then  there  are  the  City  missions 
that  do  good  work,  and  a  brotherhood  that 
potters  about  in  various  directions.  But  a  quan 
tity  is  done — too  much,  almost." 

"  I  have  told  my  brother  that  it  will  be  a  waste 
of  muscle,"  Claude  put  in  ;  "  he  could  do  just  as 
much  good  in  a  menagerie.  But  I  have  an  en 
gagement,"  he  added,  while  Dr.  Ratcliffe  looked 
a  little  shocked.  "  I  will  leave  the  carriage,  Jack  ; 
lunch  at  one,  remember."  Then  he  went  his 
way,  and  Dr.  Ratcliffe  looked  a  little  uneasily  at 
the  stranger  left  on  his  hands. 

"You  have  just  arrived  ?  "  he  began. 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  study  in  the  seminary  and 
do  mission  work." 

"  Of  course  money  is  no  object  with  you  ?" 

"  No,"  John  answered,  as  if  regretting  the 
estate  and  bank  account  turned  over  to  him  that 
morning.  "  No,  I  am  not  permitted  to  deny  my- 


124  JOHN  PA  GET. 

self  pecuniarily.  I  see  what  you  think  " — flashing 
a  quick  look  on  Dr.  Ratcliffe,  who  had  sighed  : 
"  that  I  am  a  young  enthusiast.  I  am  not  very 
young,  and  I  do  not  think  my  enthusiasm  comes 
from  a  lack  of  experience.  I  was  educated  by  a 
clergyman.  His  work  was  unheard  of,  but  no 
saint  ever  lived  a  grander  life.  His  people,  a 
mixed  and  shifting  population,  loved  him  beyond 
expression,  the  worst  reprobates  honoring  good 
ness  for  his  sake.  His  life  was  lonely  and,  from 
your  standpoint,  comfortless,  but  he  was  so  filled 
with  faith  that  he  seemed  not  to  realize  doubts 
and  difficulties.  He  looked  up  so  steadfastly 
that  he  did  not  see  the  trial  that  the  next  step 
might  hold  for  him  ;  he  walked  as  simply  as  a 
child  walks  holding  by  its  father's  hand."  He 
stopped  abruptly,  and  the  light  went  out  of  his 
eyes.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  ;"  when  I 
speak  of  my  cousin  I  forget  myself." 

"You  are  very  pardonable.  You  describe  the 
ideal  Christian  life — a  life  that  is  seldom  lived 
now." 

"Why?" 

"  Why,  life  has  grown  so  complex  that  sim 
plicity  is  not  understood,  and  enthusiasm  drives 
people  away.  A  bishop  described  one  of  his 
clergy  to  me,  very  much  as  you  describe  your 
friend,  and  finished  with,  '  he  is  the  holiest,  the 
most  ideal  Christian ;  he  is,  indeed,  impossibly 
good;  he  belongs  to  the  first  century;  I  had  to 
send  him  into  the  rural  districts,'  You  perceive, 


JOHN  PAGET.  125 

Mr.  Paget,  that  modern  life  cannot  assimilate 
truth  and  enthusiasm  in  its  crude  form." 

"  Then  I  am  sorry  for  modern  life,"  John  an- 
swered. 

Dr.  Ratcliffe  smiled.  "  I  will  tell  you  an  anec 
dote  of  this  same  man.  He  was  trying  to  pay 
off  the  debt  on  his  church  ;  one  of  his  most  influ 
ential  vestrymen  sent  him  a  check  for  several 
thousand  dollars,  saying  that  it  was  a  tithe  from 
a  lucky  speculation.  He  asked  this  gentleman 
to  tell  him  about  this  speculation  ;  hearing  that 
it  was  railroad  wrecking,  he  thanked  the  man 
and  returned  the  check.  He  very  nearly  de 
stroyed  the  parish." 

"  And  the  bishop  sent  that  man  into  the  coun 
try  ?  "  John  said,  a  tone  of  scorn  creeping  into 
his  voice.  "  He  had  better  have  resigned  his  bish 
opric  to  him.  I  would  ruin  a  dozen  dioceses  to 
establish  a  truth  like  that." 

"  Experience  teaches  the  necessity  of  expedi 
ency,"  Dr.  Ratcliffe  said,  smiling.  "  Must  I  de 
cline  the  offerings  of  my  people  because  the 
money  was  made  by  gambling  on  Wall  Street  ? 
Almost  every  fortune  in  New  York  has  been 
founded  on  lucky  speculation." 

"  A  man  whose  fortune  is  the  result  of  his 
father's  gambling,  is  not  responsible,"  John  an 
swered.  "  But  a  man  red-handed  from  a  theft- 
sending  a  check  wet,  as  it  were,  with  the  tears  of 
those  he  has  ruined,  ought,  it  seems  to  me,  to  be 
shown  his  wrong  in  the  clearest  way,  and  to  a 


126  JOHN  FACET. 

man  like  that,  declining  his  money  would  be  the 
clearest  way." 

"  And  drive  him  from  the  church  ?" 
"  The  money-changers  were  driven  out  of  the 
Temple.  I  may  be  mistaken,"  John  went  on, 
"  but  only  yesterday  a  man  of  the  world  said,  '  I 
would  like  much  better  a  bigot  who  tried  to  burn 
me  for  my  unbelief,  than  these  men  who  offer  a 
compromise  on  every  point.'  The  man  who  de 
clined  the  check  would  have  pleased  him." 

"  In  theory,  yes,  but  that  simplicity  will  not 
work.  Of  course,  I  am  talking  to  you  now  as  a 
clergyman,  and  one  who  has  evidently  heard  my 
order  criticised.  It  is  easy  to  criticise — to  say, 
'  if  our  teachers  were  better,  or  the  Church  more 
at  unity  and  more  consistent,  we  would  believe,' 
and  perhaps,  Mr.  Paget,  these  people  are  not  con 
sciously  telling  an  untruth  ;  still,  what  they  say 
is  not  true.  They  have  no  wish  to  believe,  or  to 
lead  higher  lives.  They  are  corroded  through  and 
through  with  worldliness,  vanity,  selfishness,  and 
luxuriousness.  The  supercilious  stare  that  would 
be  accorded  the  guileless  saint,  would  go  far  to 
annihilate  him.  In  a  fashionable  parish,  such  as 
I  have,  for  instance,  such  a  man  would  be  impos 
sible.  Each  day  has  a  hundred  things  to  be  ad 
justed  wisely,  and  a  man  has  to  meet  them — 
come  down  to  them,  if  you  like — so  that  things 
may  be  kept  in  decent  order.  As  parishes  go, 
mine  is  considerate  and  kind.  They  make  no  dif 
ficulty  about  my  getting  away  in  summer;  the 


JOHN  FACET.  127 

offertories  are  good  ;  they  stand  well  on  mis 
sion  lists ;  they  have  guilds  and  missions,  and 
spend  much  on  the  music  ;  but  they  require  a 
rigid  account  to  be  kept  of  all  this  kindness.  For 
in  these  days  we  may  not  '  permit '  our  congre 
gations  :  we  have  to  ask  permission,  and  have  to 
make  everything  most  attractive  in  order  to  per 
suade  them  to  come  to  church  at  all.  There 
must  be  no  draughts;  there  must  be  no  strangers 
allowed,  except  in  certain  pews  ;  the  decorations 
must  be  in  the  latest  style  ;  the  sermon  short  and 
quiet  ;  the  service  rapid,  and  the  music  perfect. 
Our  congregations  require  all  this,  else  they  will 
not  come  to  church.  Then  when  the  time  comes 
that  all  moves  smoothly  and  there  is  nothing  to 
find  fault  with,  they  begin  to  realize  that  it  is  ar 
tificial  and  perfunctory,  and  turn  and  rend  the 
church  and  the  clergyman.  They  want  reality, 
conviction,  simplicity,  they  say.  Let  me  assure 
you  that  they  do  not  want  anything  of  the  kind  ; 
they  are  idle  and  pampered,  and  will  never  be 
satisfied.  And  not  only  in  New  York  is  this  so, 
but  everywhere." 

"  In  that  case  I  would  go  my  own  way,"  John 
said,  "and  disregard  their  fads — musical  and 
other." 

"  And  be  starved  out,  and  your  church  sold  for 
debt,"  Dr.  Ratcliffe  answered.  "  I  often  wish," 
he  went  on,  "that  Mr.  Gladstone  could  be  the 
rector  of  a  fashionable  American  church  for  a 
little  while  ;  he  would  take  a  different  view  of 


128  JOHN  PA  GET. 

disestablishment.  Over  there,  if  a  man  is  in 
earnest,  he  can  preach  and  teach  as  he  thinks 
right  ;  here,  a  man  may  be  desperately  earnest, 
he  is  ruled  by  his  congregation,  and  the  '  divine 
call '  amounts  to  an  excuse  for  Sunday  concerts, 
and  a  weekly  salve  for  fashionable  consciences. 
The  rector  must  truckle  or  must  go.  How  to 
remedy  all  this  is  the  problem.  It  is  a  luxurious 
age,  a  doubting  age,  an  age  that  will  have  noth 
ing  but  sugar-plums  and  persuasion.  Sometimes 
I  look  about  me,  and  ask,  '  will  any  faith  be 
found.?'  Every  other  man  you  meet  is  at  heart 
an  agnostic,  and  the  women  are  not  far  behind." 
"  If  it  is  so  bad  as  that,"  John  said,  "  we  had 
better  stop  persuading  and  begin  to  fight.  If 
truth  is  with  us,  we  must  prevail.  Throw  over 
all  nonsense,  let  the  churches  be  sold  for  debt, 
and  preach  on  the  street  corners.  If  they  put  us 
in  prisons  and  lunatic  asylums,  men  have  died 
before  this  for  truth  and  right  ;  why  should  not 
we  ?  A  luxurious,  unbelieving  age — grant  it. 
But  there  has  never  been  an  age  when  men  were 
more  eager  for  truth — when  men  were  more 
earnestly  pleading  for  some  firm  place  where 
they  could  cling  ;  never  an  age  when  humanity 
was  so  eager  to  help  humanity ;  never  an  age 
when  people  cried  out  more  for  reality  !  It  seems 
to  me  that  there  neVer  has  been  a  grander  age 
in  which  to  make  the  fight  for  truth  !  Only,  the 
champions  must  be  true — must  eliminate  self, 
and  live  the  life  of  the  crucified." 


JOHN  PAGET.  129 

Dr.  Ratcliffe  looked  at  his  young  companion 
sadly.  "  You  almost  make  me  believe  that 
enthusiasm  is  better  than  experience,"  he  said — 
"  almost  make  me  believe  that  youth  only  can 
grapple  with  the  problems  of  this  generation. 
The  race  is  become  so  swift,  the  battle  so  fierce ! 
When  one  is  weary,  one  can  but  lag,  and  one 
must  temporize  with  blistered  feet  and  tremulous 
heart.  As  a  vigorous  young  soldier,  I  used  to 
feel  the  deepest  pity  for  those  who  lay  down  on 
the  roadside  and  let  the  column  move  on,  and 
now  I  begin  to  look  longingly  at  the  roadside." 

"  Surely  not  yet,"  said  John,  looking  at  the 
hair  that  was  just  touched  with  silver. 

"  It  is  the  pace  that  makes  age,  more  than 
time,"  Dr.  Ratcliffe  answered.  "  But  tired  or 
old,  I  cannot  drop  out.  There  is  no  life  that 
seems  so  pitiful  as  the  life  of  a  superannuated 
clergyman.  They  are  so  often  dependent  on  the 
alms  of  the  Church,  and  people  are  so  apt  to  feel 
that  money  given  in  that  way  is  wasted.  You 
will  see  that  all  the  tendency  is  to  set  the  young 
forward  in  life.  It  is  right  ;  it  is  of  the  first 
importance  ;  but  as  I  get  tired  I  begin  to  think  of 
those  who  have  to  drop  out.  There  are  alms- 
houses  and  homes "  He  stopped  abruptly. 

"  I  cannot  see  why  I  should  talk  to  you  in  this  way, 
Mr.  Paget  ;  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  when  one 
has  always  to  keep  one's  finger  on  the  pulse  of 
one's  public,  nervousness  as  to  the  fluctuations 
is  sure  to  ensue.  People  who  are  stimulated  all 


130  JOHN  FACET. 

the  week  cannot  do  without  it  entirely  on  Sun- 
day,  and  to  play  the  part  of  stimulant  is  nothing 
short  of  death  by  slow  torture.  Meanwhile,  Mr. 
Paget,"  as  John  rose,  "  I  hope  that  your  enthu 
siasm  will  do  good  work,  only  it  will  be  hard  to 
keep." 

Then  John  went  away  without  having  found 
the  hard  work  about  which  Claude  was  anxious. 


IX. 

"  And  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  the  best 
That  from  his  vintage  rolling  Time  has  prest, 

Have  drunk  their  cup  a  round  or  two  before, 
And  one  by  one  crept  silently  to  rest. 

"  Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  can  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  dust  descend  : 

Dust  unto  dust,  and  under  dust,  to  lie, 
Sans  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and — Sans  End  !  " 

D  Marjie  swear?"  Claude  asked  Beatrice,  as 
they  sat  down  to  lunch. 

"  If  there  be  a  time  when  swearing  is  allowable 
for  a  woman/'  Marjorie  said,  "  it  is  when  she  is 
struggling  with  a  dressmaker." 

"  Were  you  polite  and  sweet-tempered  through 
it  all?  "  Claude  went  on. 

"  Yes,"  Beatrice  answered  ;  "  but  the  sewing 
woman  looked  astonished  at  my  Convent  clothes. 
Cut  and  fit  are  nothing  to  the  Sisters,  you 
see." 

"  Fancy  being  such  a  saint  as  not  to  mind  a 
baggy  gown,"  Marjorie  said,  laughing.  "  Were 
they  not  a  great  trial  to  you — the  gowns,  I 
mean  ?" 

Beatrice  shook  her  head.  "  I  never  thought  of 
them.  I  am  afraid  I  just  like  to  be  comfortable." 


I32  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  Very  sensible,  I  am  sure,"  Claude  answered. 
"And  women  so  seldom  look  comfortable." 

"  We  are,  though,"  Marjorie  asserted  ;  "  and  in  a 
week  Beatrice  will  wonder  how  she  endured  her 
Convent  clothes." 

"  And  when  are  we  to  judge  of  the  difference 
between  clothes  made  by  saints  and  clothes  made 
by  sinners?  "  Claude  asked. 

"  By  Sunday,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  answered. 
Then  turning  to  John  :  "  How  did  you  get  on 
with  Dr.  Ratcliffe?" 

"  Speaking  of  saints  brought  him  to  her  mind, 
you  see,"  Claude  said.  "  When  I  left,  mother, 
they  were  looking  at  each  other  like  two  strange 
dogs." 

"  He  was  kind  and  civil,  and  talked  to  me 
quite  frankly,"  John  answered. 

Claude  laughed.  "  He  had  to  be  frank.  Jack 
walked  up  to  him  as  a  terrier  walks  up  to  a  rat 
he  means  to  shake.  About  this  time  I  remem 
bered  the  proverbial  horrors  of  religious  wars, 
and  left.  Did  you  find  out  about  the  slums? 
Will  he  turn  you  over  to  the  brotherhood  that 
he  spoke  of  so  kindly  as  '  pottering  about  down 
there  '  ?  That  was  just  like  old  Ratcliffe,"  Claude 
went  on.  "  A  different  church  party,  hence  the 
amiable  detraction.  Ratcliffe  is  finikin." 

"  He  seemed  very  much  in  earnest  this  morn 
ing,"  John  said. 

"  He  could  not  help  it,  my  dear  fellow;  when 
you  come  at  a  man  with  that  life-and-death  ear- 


JOHN  PA  GET.  133 

nestness  of  yours,  you  compel  the  truth.  I  have 
never  told  the  truth  so  straight  along  in  my  life, 
as  I  have  done  since  your  advent." 

"  I  have  been  wondering  what  was  the  matter," 
Marjorie  said.  "  You  talk  more  and  better,  and 
your  opinions  seem  to  have  crystallized  with 
remarkable  celerity." 

Claude  gave  her  a  quick  look  of  amusement. 
"  Your  criticism  is  quite  just,"  he  said.  "  As  soon 
as  I  come  in  contact  with  truth  and  strength,  my 
whole  nature  answers  to  the  call.  Meanwhile,  I 
wish  we  would  hasten  to  finish  this  abnormally 
protracted  meal.  I  am  in  a  hurry." 

"  Claude ! "  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  looked  at 
him  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  know  all  that  you  would  say 
if  I  had  left  you  any  breath.  Still,  I  am  in  a 
hurry.  I  want  to  take  Beatrice  home  to  that 
delectable  little  Christi — what?" 

"  Corpus  Christi." 

"  An  extraordinary  name  for  a  heathen  village." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  heathen  !  " 

"  Why,  it  must  be,  unless  you  can  convert  jack 
daws,  water,  and  roses  to  Christianity,  for  I  have 
not  heard  you  mention  any  other  inhabitants." 

"  Claude,  you  are  positively  silly,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  said,  laughing  with  the  rest,  "  systemat 
ically  silly." 

"  Even  so,"  and  Claude  emptied  his  wine 
glass.  "  Still,  the  company  looks  ten  per  cent, 
better  than  when  we  sat  down.  The  systematic 


134  fOHN  PA  GET. 

idiot  has  done  some  good.  Have  you  finished, 
Marjie  ?  Your  appetite  makes  me  think  of  an 
Egyptian  locust." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  pushed  her  chair  back. 
"  You  are  hopeless,"  she  said. 

"Come,"  and  putting  Beatrice's  hand  on  his 
arm,  Claude  led  the  way  through  the  study  to  a 
door  that  had  hitherto  been  hidden  by  a  carved 
screen.  This  had  been  removed,  and  Waters 
stood  waiting. 

"  All  quite  right,  Waters  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Come  forward,  dear  friends,"  Claude  went  on, 
"  and  see  the  home  of  the  lonely  cow-girl  who 
was  captured  and  brought  away  by  cruel  friends 
to  a  cold  and  dismal  land.  Open!  "  and  Waters 
rolled  the  doors  back. 

"Oh!"  Beatrice  cried,  and  held  closer  to 
Claude's  arm.  "  All  this  for  me  ?  " 

"All  this!"  he  repeated,  laughing.  "I  have 
done  nothing  but  give  a  few  orders.  Come." 
And  he  led  her  down  among  the  palms  and 
flowers. 

"  It  is  beautiful,"  John  said  to  Marjorie.  "  And 
how  kind  Claude  is  to  the  child." 

Marjorie  looked  up  at  him  curiously.  "  Why 
are  you  not  kind  to  the  child  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Am  I  not  ?  "  returning  her  look  questioningly. 

They  were  in  the  conservatory  now,  watching 
Beatrice  as  she  went  from  flower  to  flower  with 
Claude. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  135 

*'  And  you  may  cut  every  one  every  day,"  he 
said.  "  Northern  flowers  are  much  superior  to 
Southern  flowers;  they  bloom  all  over  every 
night." 

"  You  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  dreadful  goose," 
Beatrice  answered,  laughing;  "I  shall  be  very 
careful." 

"  No,"  Claude  answered,  "you  may  be  anything 
but  full  of  care.  You  must  behave  as  if  the 
world  were  full  of  flowers  put  there  for  you 
to  gather — promise  me?"  taking  her  hands. 
"Promise  me?  " 

"  But,  Claude— 

" '  But  me  no  buts,'  even  if  you  are  a  cowgirl. 
Promise  me." 

"Yes.  Oh,  there  is  the  guitar!"  and  drawing 
away  her  hands,  she  went  to  where  a  servant 
stood  in  the  doorway  with  a  case  in  his  hands. 

"  Take  it  and  open  it  for  her,"  Marjorfe  said  to 
John,  and  he  obeyed  her. 

"O  John!"  Then,  looking  up  wistfully:  "It 
is  such  a  beauty  ;  must  I  take  it  all,  John  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  just  as  you  would  from  me."  And 
Marjorie  thought,  "How  grand  and  true  his  love 
will  be.  Claude  will  make  a  petted  doll  of  his 
wife;  John  will  make  a  living  soul  of  his,  and 
the  girl  will  never  realize  this,  never!"  And  an 
unreasonable  anger  sprang  up  in  her  heart  against 
Claude,  who  was  so  clever  to  make  and  to  take 
opportunities.  "  A  great,  true  nature  like  John's 
was  apt  to  blunder,"  her  thoughts  ran  on,  "  and 


136  JOHN  PA  GET. 

could  never  learn  .how  to  handle  these  toy 
weapons  that  Claude  had  used  year  after  year 
on  as  many  flirtations  as  there  were  weeks  in  a 
season.  The  weapons  were  old  until  they  were 
dingy;  why  was  he  burnishing  them  on  this 
child's  heart  that  still  slept?  " 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  had  gone  back  into  the 
study,  and  sitting  there  the  tones  of  the  guitar 
came  to  her.  She  turned  her  face  away,  for 
Marjorie  stood  in  the  door.  The  old  Spanish 
Fandango  !  It  was  like  a  dream — the  fireflies 
were  tangled  in  the  jessamine  vines,  and  the 
moonlight  flickered  up  and  down  the  dark 
avenue.  A  voice  that  had  been  stilled  on  the 
battlefield  was  singing  low,  and  a  hand  that 
death  had  clasped  by  the  blue  Southern  waters 
was  holding  hers.  And  now  these — these  also, 
in  there  among  the  flowers,  would  break  their 
hearts  their  own  way.  Nothing  else  would  con 
tent  them — nothing  else  ! 

There  was  a  sudden  discordant  twanging  of  the 
strings  and  a  sobbing  cry  of  "  Father !  " 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  started  up ;  Marjie  still 
leaned  in  the  doorway ;  Claude  had  caught  the 
falling  guitar,  and  John  on  the  low,  cushioned 
seat  had  his  arm  about  Beatrice,  who  was  sobbing 
bitterly. 

"  Take  me  home — please  take  me  home  !  '  she 
pleaded,  clinging  to  him  and  burying  her  face  on 
his  shoulder  ;  "  I  want  father — I  want  Angela — I 
want  my  home !  Let  us  go,  John;  let  us  go!" 


JOHN  FACET.  137 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  beckoned.  "  Better  leave 
her  alone  a  little  with  John,"  she  said,  and  led 
the  way  to  the  drawing  room.  "  The  first  attack 
of  homesickness,"  she  went  on,  seating  herself 
near  the  fire.  u  I  knew  it  must  come." 


X. 

"  It's  wiser  being  good  than  bad  ; 
It's  safer  being  meek  than  fierce  ; 
It's  fitter  being  sane  than  mad." 

BEATRICE'S  mortification  over  her  breakdown 
-U  was  very  great,  and  she  was  thankful  that  the 
interview  with  the  four  teachers  came  on  that 
special  afternoon.  She  was  very  miserable 
through  it  all,  and  when  the  hours,  the  methods, 
the  books  had  been  arranged,  and  Marjorie  had 
gone,  she  donned  her  thick  white  frock  and  stole 
downstairs  in  search  of  John. 
.!  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  the  one  rock  left  in 
the  sea  of  misery  which  life  had  become  since 
lunch.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  live  another 
hour  in  this  New  York — that  she  must  go  back 
to  her  home.  If  not  to  Corpus  Christi,  then  to 
the  Convent  to  the  dear  Mother.  It  was  impos 
sible  that  she  should  stay  here.  Perhaps  if  she 
talked  to  John  reasonably  and  quietly  about  it, 
he  would  take  her  back,  or  send  her  back,  it  did 
not  matter  which.  She  had  been  very  foolish  to 
cry,  she  would  not  be  such  a  baby  again,  and 
maybe  he  would  consent  to  her  going.  He  would 
have  to  consent,  or  she  would  die.  He  had  not 
refused  positively  when  she  begged  him  in  the 

138 


JOHN  PA  GET.  139 

conservatory,  and  it  might  be  that  now  he  would 
say  yes.  Indeed  he  had  seemed  very  miserable 
himself.  Maybe  he  wanted  to  go  home — maybe 
he  would !  and  she  could  keep  house  for  him,  and 
old  Angela  could  cook. 

Her  visions  grew  rose  colored  as  she  stole 
through  the  hall  and  peeped  into  the  drawing 
room.  She  made  no  sound,  and  Claude,  who, 
ready  dressed  for  dinner,  sat  staring  into  the  fire, 
did  not  know  of  her  nearness. 

She  scarcely  breathed  as  she  turned  away. 
She  did  not  want  to  meet  him  just  then,  for  he 
seemed  apart  of  this  obnoxious  new  life — a  pos 
sible  barrier  to  her  plans.  She  wanted  John — 
John,  who  of  late  seemed  to  have  slipped  away 
from  her — John,  the  only  salvage  from  the  wreck 
of  her  old  life. 

He  must  be  in  the  study ;  and  like  a  ghost  she 
stole  across  the  hall,  and  pushed  open  the  door 
that  was  not  latched.  Yes,  there  he  sat  gazing 
into  the  fire,  pretty  much  as  Claude  was  doing 
in  the  drawing  room.  She  closed  the  door 
softly,  but  as  soft  as  the  click  of  the  latch  was 
John  heard  it,  and  looking,  up  held  out  his  hand 
to  her.  Quickly  she  came  and  knelt  down  at  his 
knee. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  have  your  teachers  appalled 
you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not  thought  of  them,"  she  an 
swered  quickly.  "  I  have  gone  through  it  like  a 
dream — a  bad  dream ;  but  I  am  awake  now.  and 


14°  JOHN  PA  GET. 

I  want  to  talk  to  you.  John,  do  you  remember 
when  I  was  a  little  child,  and  came  home  from 
the  Convent  once,  you  were  very  good  to  me  ?  " 

"Was  I,  dear?" 

"Yes;  and  when  I  came  home  last  year  a  big 
girl,  you  were  good  to  me.  And  when  father  was 
ill,  John,  all  that  long  while,"  with  a  break  in  her 
voice,  "you  told  me  always  what  to  do,  and  you 
promised  father  you  would  be  good  to  me.  You 
remember?" 

"Of  course," — looking  into  the  fire. 

"And,  John,"  putting  her  hand  on  his  face  and 
turning  it  back  again,  so  that  she  could  look 
straight  in  his  eyes,  "  all  that  goodness  and  kind 
ness  meant  that  you  loved  me — did  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Loved  me  a  great  deal?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  you  wish  me  to  be  happy?" 

"  Yes." 

"Then  you  will  do  what  I  want?  you  will  take 
me  home  again,"  her  voice  breaking  with  a  sigh 
that  was  almost  a  sob,  "take  me  home  to  old 
Angela  ;  we  will  make  you  so  comfortable,  John, 
she  and  I  ;  and  I  will  do  everything  you  tell  me. 
I  will  teach  Sunday  school,  and  read  Church 
history,  and  do  all  the  things  that  you  wanted 
me  to  do  and  I  did  not  want  to  do.  I  will  do  it 
all,  and  more,  if  you  will  take  me  back  again. 
I  tell  you  I  will  die  if  you  keep  me  here — I  can 
not  stand  it — Iwz//not  stand  it!  John!  "  draw- 


JOHN  PA  GET.  141 

ing  closer  to  him,  "  I  did  not  mean  that  ;  I  did 
not  mean  to  say  that  I  would  not  obey  you — 
only" — then  her  voice  failed. 

John  laid  his  arm  about  her  shoulder  as  she 
kneeled  beside  him.  "  If  you  will  try  to  be 
happy/'  he  said,  "  and  will  trust  me,  I  will  try  to 
arrange  it  all  for  you." 

"  I  will — I  will !  "  an  ecstatic  light  coming  into 
her  face,  "  I  will  study — I  will  practice — I  will 
wear  tight  clothes  and  play  the  guitar  for  Claude. 
I  will  do  anything." 

"Yes,"  John  went  on,  "you  must  return  their 
kindness  by  being  as  happy  as  possible,  and  I 
will  do  my  best  for  you.  You  see  I  came  here 
to  study  to  be  a  clergyman,  and  I  have  not  found 
out  yet  how  long  it  will  take  me — but  not  long, 
I  fancy.  I  promise  you  I  will  do  it  as  quickly 
as  possible.  Then " 

"Then  we  will  go  home,"  the  girl  struck  in, 
"  and  hang  up  my  old  hammock  again — I  left  it 
with  Angela,  and  my  own  old  guitar,  and  the 
boat,  and  old  Calavaros  will  let  us  have  the 
horses  as  usual.  Oh,  I  will  be  so  happy  !  Only, 
father,  John  ;  it  will  be  lonely  without  him," — 
her  voice  faltering. 

"  Hush,  we  will  not  talk  of  that  just  now  ;  but 
we  will  work  hard  and  be  good,  and  all  will  come 
right." 

"  We  will  ;  oh,  you  are  so  good  to  me  ! "  and 
she  pressed  her  lips  on  his  hand  that  lay  on  her 
shoulder,  "  and  I  will  begin  by  thanking  Claude 


142  JOHN  PA  GET. 

for  the  guitar.  I  did  not  to-day,  you  know ;  I 
cried  instead,  and  begged  to  go  away  :  now  I  will 
go  and  thank  him.  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  By  himself  in  the  drawing  room.  I  looked  in 
there  to  hunt  for  you,  and  saw  him,  and,  John — " 
pausing. 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  You  will  never  go  away  and  leave  me  here  ? 

To-day  a  sort  of  terror  came  over  me  that  you 

j  might    feel  it   your  duty   to   go — and    you    and 

|  father  always  do  your  duty,  and   so  you  would 

leave  me." 

"  I  will  never  leave  you  without  your  full 
knowledge  and  free  consent.  I  think  you  would 
let  me  do  my  duty?" 

"  You  make  life  so  hard,"  she  answered  slowly. 

John  sighed. 

"  Life  is  hard,  child  ;  I  do  not  make  it  so. 
All  we  can  do  is  to  obey — obey,  if  obedience 
brings  the  bitterest  sufferings.  Only  so  you  will 
win  the  peace  that  no  pain  can  touch." 

Then  she  went  away  slowly,  with  thoughts  in 
her  mind  that  she  did  not  seem  able  to  grasp. 
Talking  with  John  left  her  always  with  a 
troubled  longing  for  something  she  could  not  de 
fine.  What  was  it,  this  vague  unrest  he  always 
roused,  that  made  her  look  back  so  longingly  to 
her  life  at  the  Convent.  All  she  wanted  in  life 
was  peace  such  as  she  had  there.  Why  not  let 
her  go  back  ? 


JOHN  FACET.  143 

And  John,  left  alone,  thought  of  the  day  rather 
sadly.  He  was  still  full  of  enthusiasm  for  his 
work,  and  would  never  let  his  enthusiasm  go,  but 
things  were  very  different  from  what  he  had  ex 
pected.  In  the  provinces  New  York  was  looked 
on  as  the  Mother  Church,  and  he  had  thought  to 
find  there,  as  nowhere  else,  a  strong  spiritual  life 
among  the  clergy — men  working  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  with  glowing  faith  and  burning  hope. 
He  had  thought  to  find  an  environment  and  an 
encouragement  that  would  be  a  memory  and 
strength  through  all  the  coming  years.  His  talk 
with  Claude  had  hurt  him  ;  still,  he  had  been  sure 
that  there  was  another  side  to  the  picture.  To 
day  he  had  seen  that  other  side.  It  was  true  he 
had  met  only  one  clergyman — had  had  only  one 
talk  ;  but  from  that  talk  he  had  come  away  feel 
ing  himself  an  ecclesiastical  Don  Quixote,  in 
stead  of  having  had  his  zeal  and  enthusiasm  con 
firmed.  He  felt  helpless  when  he  remembered  it. 
How  everywhere  there  was  revealed  the  struggle 
these  men  had  to  make  against  worldliness.  The 
fight  against  poverty  and  outspoken  sin  was 
nothing  compared  with  this  war  against  luxurious- 
ness  and  pleasure.  How  pitiful  Dr.  Ratcliffe's 
talk  had  been!  Sometimes  bitter,  sometimes 
sad,  sometimes  complacent,  but  never  taking  the 
calm  high  note  of  perfect  faith.  How  pitiful  his 
praise  of  his  congregation — how  pitiful  his  fear 
of  the  future.  And  the  old  man  who  had  begged 
for  a  little  more  help.  He  could  not  forget  the 


144  JOHN  PA  GET. 

sound  of  those  shuffling  footsteps.  No  wonder 
Dr.  Ratcliffe  dreaded  loss  of  wealthy  favor,  he 
knew  so  well  how  alms  were  doled  !  To-morrow 
he  would  send  a  check  for  the  old  man. 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  entered.  "Dreaming  all 
alone  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  and  as  she  came  within  the  circle  of  fire 
light,  John  was  struck  afresh  by  her  beauty,  and 
his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  old  love  story  that 
had  come  to  his  knowledge  during  Carter's  last 
illness.  What  had  separated  those  two  ? 

"  What  was  it  that  came  between  you  and 
Carter,  Aunt  Claudia  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

She  started  slightly,  then,  as  she  settled  herself 
in  her  chair,  she  answered  in  a  voice  as  quiet  as 
his  own,  "Your  mother." 

"  My  mother  !  " 

"  Only  that  she  showed  him  my  faults  day 
after  day,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  went  on,  "and  in 
duced  him  and  your  father  to  begin  a  system  of 
reproofs;  needed,  probably,  but  that,  coming 
after  a  life  of  indulgent  love,  I  could  not  under 
stand.  I  was  very  young,  not  eighteen  when  I 
married.  Then  I  did  not  like  the  thought  of 
Carter's  going  into  the  ministry.  I  did  not  know 
life  then,  you  see." 

"  Now  you  would  love  his  work." 

"  Now  I  know  that  to  be  absorbed  in  anything 
— to  believe  in  any  work,  or  person,  or  future,  is 
the  nearest  we  get  to  happiness." 

"Aunt  Claudia!" 


JOHN  FACET.  145 

"  It  is  quite  true.  I  do  not  forecast  anything 
for  you,  for  you  have  earnestness  and  enthusiasm 
to  give  away.  You  will  have  many  disappoint 
ments — enthusiastic  people  always  do  ;  but  you 
will  make  excuses  for  those  who  fail  you,  and 
repeople  your  '  fool's  paradise  '  immediately.  I 
do  not  mean  to  call  you  a  fool  ;  on  the  contrary, 
I  think  you  most  fortunate  to  have  a  paradise  of 
any  kind.  But  you  have  not  told  me  one  word 
about  Dr.  Ratcliffe." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  him." 

"  How  strange  !  he  is  well  paid — well  fed — well 
clothed  ;  his  wife  has  several  of  the  best  people 
on  her  visiting  list ;  his  daughter  was  educated 
abroad  ;  his  son  is  just  come  home  from  Harvard. 
Why  pity  him?" 

"  Because  of  all  these  things ;  because  he  is 
obliged  to  be  so  worldly  that,  in  a  measure,  he 
has  forsaken  his  calling." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  don't  know  a  man  who 
poses  better  as  the  successful  rector." 

"  Is  Dr.  Ratcliffe  typical  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  his  school.  He  is  really  a  good  man, 
I  think,  and  tries  to  do  his  duty,  but  he  must  be 
guided  by  the  taste  of  his  people.  It  would  be 
a  desperate  job  to  live  elsewhere,  once  having 
held  such  a  comfortable  position  in  New  York. 
He  was  elected  missionary  bishop  once,  but 
declined." 

"  On  what  ground  ?  '' 

"  Various  grounds.     He  felt  that  a  great  city 


146  JOHN  PA  GET. 

parish  was  quite  as  important  as  a  missionary 
jurisdiction  ;  then  he  loved  his  people,  and  did  not 
think  his  health  could  stand  the  climate.  This 
to  the  public.  Mrs.  Ratcliffe  told  a  select  few 
that  she  had  cried  for  a  week,  and  had  declined 
to  leave  New  York.  That  the  salary  as  bishop 
was  small,  and  out  in  the  wilderness  there  were 
no  social  advantages  for  either  Jessie  or  Horton. 
She  told  Dr.  Ratcliffe  that  if  he  went  he  would 
have  to  leave  her  and  the  children." 

"  Why  did  he  not  do  it  ?  " 

"  My  dear  John,  the  wife  of  his  bosom  !  " 

"  Ten  of  them,  if  necessary." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  laughed.  "  He  is  at  least 
Christian  enough  to  have  only  one.  But  I  was 
really  sorry  for  him  at  the  time,  he  seemed  to  be 
so  troubled.  Of  course  it  increased  his  value  ; 
the  people  like  to  have  a  rector  who  refuses  bish 
oprics — it  sounds  well.  Don't  look  so  ill,  dear," 
Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  went  on.  "  I  may  be  mis 
taken  as  to  his  being  typical.  And  at  last  it  is 
all  very  natural.  One  cannot  blame  him  for  pre 
ferring  a  parish  with  a  good  salary,  a  rectory, 
and  a  minimum  of  work  to  a  diocese,  a  poor 
salary,  a  tent,  and  work  enough  to  kill  two  or 
three  men.  Human  nature  must  be  con 
sidered." 

"  Excuses  of  human  weakness  have  to  be  made 
for  us  all,  God  knows,"  John  answered,  "  but  the 
wrong  lies  deeper  than  that.  You  speak  of  them 
just  as  you  would  of  any  paid  dependent,  and 


JOHN  PA  GET.  147 

you  have  a  right  to  do  this  because  Dr.  Ratcliffe 
has  put  himself  in  the  position  of  a  paid  depend 
ent.  He  has  shown  how  much  his  place  and 
his  position  mean  to  him  from  a  worldly  stand 
point.  Why,  in  refusing  a  poor  diocese  in  order 
to  stand  by  a  rich  parish,  he  simply  trampled  on 
his  calling  and  lay  down  like  a  hungry  dog  before 
his  vestry.  Do  you  suppose  that  a  man  who  re 
garded  the  Church  as  she  should  be  regarded — 
who  believed  in  her  as  the  mystical  body  of 
Christ — who  honored  his  office  as  priest  of  the 
living  God  as  he  should  honor  it,  could  take  any 
such  position  as  that  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  a 
man  who  believed  that  he  was  carrying  on  the 
work  that  the  Son  of  God  suffered  and  died  to  in 
augurate,  could  stop  for  one  moment  to  consider 
social  advantages  or  money  ?  Of  course,  if  you 
look  on  the  church  as  a  sort  of  religious  society, 
earth-born  and-bred — what  Claude  calls  a  '  moral 
sanitary  measure  ' — why  then  elect  your  officers 
for  any  reasons  and  in  any  way  you  please,  and 
'  log-roll,'  and  truckle  to  any  extent.  No  one 
expects  anything  else  of  earthly  things.  But  the 
Church  is  not  this — is  not  a  republic  subject  to 
mob  rule  ;  it  is  a  kingdom,  with  the  Son  of  God 
for  king — it  is  divine." 

"  My  dear  John,  you  should  have  lived  a  thou 
sand  years  ago  ;  to-day  you  are  an  anomaly,  you 
are  a  phenomenon  that  only  the  remotest  prov 
inces  could  have  produced.  That  you  should 
come  to  light  in  this  age  of '  isms,'  and  smooth 


148  JOHN  PA  GET. 

words  and  ways,  is  almost  enough  to  make  one 
believe  in  miracles." 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  rising  as  dinner  was 
announced  ;  "  my  position  is  an  old  one,  but  it  is 
the  only  one  that  is  true  or  "that  can  be  held 
permanently.  And  after  all  our  discussion  may 
have  arisen  out  of  nothing,  for  we  may  have 
misjudged  Dr.  Ratcliffe." 

"  Who  and  what  ?  "  Claude  asked,  as  he  and 
Beatrice  came  into  the  dining  room  behind 
them. 

"  Dr.  Ratcliffe  and  the  bishopric,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  answered. 

"And  Jack  is  indignant?  My  dear  fellow," 
he  went  on  as  he  took  his  seat,  "  the  mater  and  I 
almost  came  to  blows  about  that.  I  said,  'What 
is  the  proposition  ?  a  thin  salary  and  the  glittering 
honor  ;  we  offer  a  fat  salary  and  a  rectory — he 
will  pray  over  it  and  stay.'  Don't  murder  me, 
Jack,  I  am  only  a  plain-spoken  black  sheep,  and 
that  is  the  regular  formula.  Why,  when  I  heard 
of  a  man  who  '  prayed '  and  then  left  the  rich 
parish,  I  could  scarcely  believe  it.  I  went  to 
that  man's  consecration  all  the  way  to  Philadel 
phia;  I  bought  his  picture  and  sought  an  intro 
duction." 

"  Claude  sends  that  bishop  a  box  every  spring 
and  autumn,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  interrupted. 

"  Of  course  I  do,  and  all  the  periodicals.  If 
Dr.  Ratcliffe  had  gone,  the  mater  should  have 
had  that  ponderous  girl  to  stay  here.  I  might 


JOHN  PA  GET.  149 

even  have  gone  so  far  as  to  invite  the  abominable 
son,  but  never  the  mother!  " 

John  laughed.  "What  ails  the  mother?  "he 
asked. 

"  Everything.  She  is  scrawny  and  whiney, 
and  has  a  bullet  head.  As  you  love  your  life, 
Jack,  avoid  women  with  bullet  heads — they  have 
hides" 

"  Is  Miss  Ratcliffe  nice?  "  Beatrice  asked. 

"  Nicer  than  her  mother;  God  forbid  that  any 
thing  should  be  worse ;  but  she  is  red-headed 
and  voluble  in  three  languages.  The  son  is  pink- 
eyed  and  morose.  By  the  way,  mother,  if  that 
woman  dares  bring  that  son  to  see  Beatrice " 

"  Well,"  John  said,  "  if  she  does?  " 

"  I  will  sell  him  to  a  butcher  for  cat's  meat. 
But,  really,  you  will  not  permit  that,  mother." 

Beatrice  looked  anxious.  "  I  am  afraid  of 
strangers,  Aunt  Claudia,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  only  a  schoolgirl,  dear,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  answered,  "  you  need  not  be  afraid." 

And  everybody  looked  relieved. 


XI. 

"  Better  men  fared  thus  before  thee  ; 
Fired  their  ringing  shot  and  passed, 
Hotly  charged — and  sank  at  last." 

ON  Sunday  morning,  at  breakfast,  a  note  was 
handed  to  John,  and  as  he  read  a  troubled 
look  came  on  his  face.  He  handed  it  to  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster. 

"  Dr.  Ratcliffe  wants  me  to  help  him  in  the 
service,"  he  said;  "  both  assistants  called  away." 

"  Of  course,  you  cannot  decline,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  answered. 

"Why  not?"  Claude  said  sharply.  "I  call  it 
cheek." 

"  You  assisted  Carter,  did  you  not?  "  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  went  on,  giving  Claude  a  glance  of 
amusement. 

"  Yes,  but  this  is  not  the  kind  of  work  I  want. 
You  will  excuse  me  while  I  answer  the  note." 

A  frown  gathered  on  Claude's  brow.  This 
would  be  more  trying  than  the  club ;  and,  turn 
ing  to  Waters,  he  said  :  "  I  wish  you  to  look  to 
Mr.  Paget's  boots  yourself,  Waters."  Then  to 
the  company  at  laj-ge,  "  I  loathe  dingy  boots, 
but  under  a  surplice  they  are  unbearable." 

"Have  you  vestments?"   Mrs.  Van   Kuyster 


JOHN  PA  GET.  151 

asked  when  John   came  back.     "  You  are  taller 
than  Dr.  Ratcliffe  or  the  assistants." 

"  Yes.  A  tall  or  a  short  man  must  always  have. 
A  clergyman  has  no  right  to  look  ridiculous." 

"  Decidedly  not,"  Claude  said  so  emphatically 
that  John  turned  and  looked  at  him.  "You  will 
take  John  in  the  carriage,  mother;  I  will  walk. 
Will  Beatrice  go  ?  "  Then,  the  answer  being  in  the 
affirmative,  Claude's  face  cleared  a  little,  and  he 
turned  to  the  girl.  "  You  must  sit  near  my  end 
of  the  pew,"  he  said,  "between  me  and  Marjie." 

"  Suppose  Marjorie  is  late  ?  "  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
suggested. 

"  Why,  then,  I  will  give  Marjie  a  gentle  push 
which  she  will  understand.  She  knows  that  Bea 
trice  can't  find  her  places  without  help." 

"  Can  you  ?  "  John  asked. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  as  regular  at  church  as 
Dr.  Ratcliffe.  I  sing  all  that  is  singable,  and  re 
spond  in  the  most  approved  mumble.  You  do 
not  know  me." 

"  You  may  always  count  on  Claude  to  this  ex 
tent,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said  ;  "  whatever  is  cor 
rect  and  proper,  he  will  not  fail  in.  Marjie  calls 
him  the  Apostle  of  Propriety." 

"  A  gentleman  has  no  choice,"  Claude  an 
swered.  "  He  must  do  the  correct  thing,  no  mat 
ter  what  his  private  fads  may  be.  It  is  your  own 
teaching,  mother." 

"  And  Carter's,"  John  said. 

Claude  was  not  happy.     He  had  not  been  happy 


152  JOHN  PA  GET. 

since  the  day  before,  when  in  the  conservatory 
Beatrice  had  turned  to  John.  His  sensations 
under  the  circumstances  had  astonished  and  pro 
voked  him,  the  more  so  that  both  Marjie  and  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  had  seen  his  discomfiture. 

Nor  had  his  temper  been  improved  when  in  the 
dusk  of  the  evening  Beatrice  had  come  to  him  in 
the  drawing  room,  to  apologize  for  her  tears.  She 
had  looked  very  lovely  as  she  stood  by  him  in  the 
half-light,  and  he  had  started  to  his  feet,  pleased 
and  surprised  that  she  should  have  sought  him. 

"  You  must  think  me  very  stupid  and  rude," 
she  began,  "  when  I  cried.  I  have  come  to  beg 
your  pardon  ;  it  was  the  music  did  it,  and  I  thank 
you  very  much  for  the  guitar." 

"  I  understand  perfectly,"  he  said,  leading  her 
to  a  sofa  and  sitting  down  beside  her.  "  It  was 
silly  of  me  to  make  you  recall  your  home." 

"  Yes,"  her  voice  breaking  a  little,  "  but  I  should 
not  have  made  everyone  so  uncomfortable." 

"  You  must  not  think  of  it  any  more" — and 
Claude  laid  his  hand  on  hers. 

"  I  must  think  of  it  enough  not  to  do  it  again. 
John  says  that  if  I  will  study  and  be  good,  and 
show  my  appreciation  of  all  the  kindness  by  being 
happy,  that  he  will  promise  to  take  me  home  again 
soon  as  possible.  John  is  so  good  to  me." 

"  So  it  seems  !  "  and  thrusting  his  hands  into  his 
pockets,  Claude  took  up  his  position  in  front  of 
the  fire. 

"And  I  shall  be  so  happy!  "  the  girl  went  on. 


JOHN  FACET.  153 

"  I  will  keep  house  for  John,  and  old  Angela  to 
cook.  And  the  jackdaws,  and  the  flowers,  and 
all  the  shabby  old  things  just  as  they  used  to  be. 
You  cannot  think  how  happy  we  were.  I  did  not 
know  it  myself  until  now,  and  I  did  not  know 
that  our  things  were  old  and  shabby." 

"  And  maybe  when  you  go  away,"  Claude  said 
slowly,  "  you  will  recall  the  guitar,  and  these 
flowers,  and  that  silly  Claude,  with  regret ;  for 
maybe  you  will  have  learned  to  care  for  this  house 
by  that  time." 

"Oh,  but  I  care  for  you  now!  No  one  has  ever 
been  so  good  to  me  before  ;  but  John,  you  know, 
is  a  piece  of  my  life." 

"Yes,"  Claude  answered,  and  after  that  he  let 
her  talk  with  little  interruption,  and  accepted  her 
plan  that  he  should  go  to  Corpus  Christi  too. 

Arid  now  he  was  still  more  annoyed  by  John's 
having  to  take  part  in  the  service,  and  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster's  smile  at  breakfast  added  to  his  anger. 
Of  course  he  must  go  to  church ;  to  stay  away 
would  not  be  civil.  But  suppose  John's  vest 
ments  were  shabby — suppose  he  should  fail. 
Hang  old  Ratcliffe !  And  Marjorie  and  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  would  read  him  clearly,  and  laugh  at  him. 
Confound  it  all  ! 

None  of  this  annoyance  appeared,  however,  and 
at  a  quarter  before  eleven  he  stood  in  the  hall  care 
lessly  twirling  a  white  rose  between  his  perfectly 
gloved  fingers,  and  watching  with  approving,  if  fur 
tive  glances,  Waters,  who  was  brushing  John's  hat 


154  JOHN  PA  GET. 

in  a  truly  scientific  manner.  In  church  he  found 
things  arranged  as  he  had  ordered.  Marjorie  was 
next  to  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster,  and  Beatrice  looked  up 
with  a  very  lovely  smile  as  he  entered  the  pew. 
So  far,  so  good  ;  but  he  caught  a  twinkle  in  Mar- 
jie's  eye  that  made  him  long  to  fight.  Of  course 
Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  had  told  her  that  John  was  go 
ing  to  read,  and  of  course  Marjorie  knew  that  he, 
Claude,  was  miserable.  His  feelings  were  in  some 
degree  soothed,  however,  when  he  saw  that  peo 
ple  whose  opinions  were  worth  having  were  look 
ing  at  Beatrice  with  approval,  not  to  say  admira 
tion. 

But  satisfactory  as  this  was,  the  organ  prelude 
and  the  opening  of  the  vestry-room  door,  made 
Claude  wince ;  Marjorie's  nerves  were  a  little 
strained  too.  But  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  smiled,  and 
Beatrice  looked  up  with  a  serene  light  in  her  eyes. 

Many  people  looked,  and  some  whispered  "Who 
is  it  ?"  Claude  would  have  asked  himself  if  he  had 
not  known,  and  he  wondered  that  he  had  not 
realized  long  ago  how  very  commonplace  Dr. 
Ratcliffe  was.  After  this  his  fears  subsided,  and 
the  service  had  a  different  ring  to  it. 

In  the  aisles  when  all  was  done,  people  asked, 
"  Who  is  that  young  man  ?  "  "  What  a  lovely  voice!" 
"How  handsome  !"  "Such  hands,  I  could  not 
take  my  eyes  off  them.  "  And  Claude  heard  Mar 
jorie  answering,  "  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's  nephew,  Mr. 
Paget,"  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  answering, 
"  Claude's  brother,  Mr.  Paget,"  and  Claude  an- 


JOHX  PA  GET.  155 

swered  many  times  himself,  "  My  brother,  Mr. 
Paget.  "  John  was  a  success,  and  Beatrice  was  a 
success,  and  a  calm  settled  on  his  spirit. 

"  You  read  so  well,  John,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
said  at  lunch.  "  It  seemed  no  effort  to  you." 

"  It  was  not ;  the  acoustics  of  the  church  are 
good." 

"  You  would  not  think  so,"  Claude  said,  "  if 
you  could  hear  little  Dorkins  shriek  the  lessons 
at  us." 

"  You  created  quite  a  sensation,  Mr.  Paget." 

"  You  are  laughing,  Miss  Van  Kuyster." 

"  I  was  never  more  in  earnest  in  my  life,"  Mar- 
jorie  answered.  "  Am  I  not  right,  Claude  ?  " 

"  Quite  right  ;  the  buzz  began  before  the  bless 
ing  was  done."  • 

John  laughed.  "  I  heard  the  buzz,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  I  caused  it." 

"  Well,  you  did,"  Claude  answered.  "  I  ex 
pected  them  to  encore  you  once  or  twice,  and 
waited  for  them  to  call  you  back  when  the  show 
was  over." 

"Coming  from  a  little  country  church,  it  did 
seem  something  of  a  show." 

"  It  is ;  and  to-day  when  you  were  real,  it  caused 
a  sensation.  I  saw  people  standing  up  and  kneel 
ing  down  whose  knees  I  have  doubted  until  to 
day." 

"  Old  Mrs.  Badger  was  quite  put  out,"  Marjorie 
said;  "it  was  amusing  to  hear  her.  '  My  dear 
Miss  Van  Kuyster,  that  young  man  looked  at  me 


1 5  6  JOHN  PA  GET. 

quite  severely  because  I  sat  during  the  Te  Deum  ; 
does  he  not  know  that  people  like  to  be  comfort 
able  when  they  are  hearing  good  music  ?'  It  was 
funny." 

"  Where  did  the  old  person  sit?"  John  asked. 
"  I  do  not  remember  looking  at  anyone  in  par 
ticular." 

"  Just  under  your  nose,"  Claude  answered;  "  and 
before  service  was  over  she  looked  like  a  boiled 
lobster." 

"  It  is  a  very  handsome  church,"  John  said. 

"  And  comfortable,"  Marjorie  answered. 
"  The  benches  are  well  angled — if  I  may  coin  an 
expression  ;  the  heating  is  good,  the  light  well 
tempered,  the  music  bearable,  and  the  sermons 
short." 

"  But,  oh,  the  voice  !  "  Claude  exclaimed.  "  Rat- 
cliffe's  voice  is  like  a  blank  wall  ;  I  never  realized 
it  until  to-day." 

"  Church  seems  to  have  done  us  great  good," 
Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said,  rising  ;  and  Beatrice  re 
tiring  on  the  plea  of  a  headache,  the  rest  wan 
dered  into  the  study. 

"  Beatrice  does  not  seem  to  be  strong,"  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  said  when  they  were  seated  about 
the  fire. 

"  She  has  never  been  ill,"  John  answered  ;  "  but 
her  mother  was  extremely  delicate ;  she  seemed 
to  die  chiefly  of  inability  to  live.  The  physician 
diagnosed  it  as  lack  of  vitality." 

"  We  must  put  Beatrice  on  a  tonic,  mother," 


JOHN  PA  GET.  157 

Claude  said  quietly,  "  and  this  climate  will  help 
her.  It  was  old  Ratcliffe's  twaddle  that  tired 
her  out." 

"  Why  do  you  not  change  your  parish  ?  "  John 
asked. 

"Any  other  would  fare  just  the  same,"  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  answered. 

"  Yes,  and  there  is  not  another  building  so 
comfortable,"  Marjorie  said. 

"  Why  do  you  go  to  church  at  all  ?  "  John  went 
on. 

"  Because  it  is  a  good  habit,  and  the  correct 
thing,"  Marjorie  answered.  "Why  do  you  go?." 

"  Because  I  believe  in  it  as  a  divine  institution." 

"  Really  ?  " 

"Of  course  ;  if  I  did  not,  I  would  not  go  near 
it." 

Marjorie  looked  a  little  uncertain.  "  I  do  not 
think  that  I  quite  understand  how  it  is  you  be 
lieve  in  it,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  only  this,  that  the  Christ  came  to  earth 
to  found  his  kingdom,  the  Church  ;  and  it  was  in 
pursuance  of  this  work  that  he  suffered  and  died. 
Must  it  not  seem  holy  and  of  worth  to  me — to 
anyone  who  looks  at  it  truly  ?" 

"I  was  taught  that  Christ  came  down  to  die 
for  our  sins." 

"  He  came  to  work,  and  died  because  of  our 
exceeding  sinfulness.  Socrates  said  that  if  the 
perfect  man  ever  appeared  on  earth,  he  would  be 
put  to  death." 


1 58  JOHN  FACET. 

"  You  conducted  the  service  as  if  you  believed 
in  it,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said. 

"  How  could  you  think  otherwise?" 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  thought  about  it  at 
all ;  but  your  manner  was  unusual  and  struck 
me." 

"  I  think  I  must  tell  on  Claude,"  Marjorie  said. 
"  He  was  in  such  misery  this  morning,  Mr.  Paget, 
and  all  on  account  of  your  having  to  read  the  ser 
vice.  If  you  had  fallen  below  his  standard,  he 
would  have  become  suddenly  ill,  and  have  come 
away." 

"  Indeed  I  would,"  Claude  answered  so  ear 
nestly  that  John  laughed.  "  I  do  not  mind  my 
people  being  failures  if  I  can  take  them  off  by 
themselves,  but  it  really  hurts  me  to  see  the  pub 
lic  stare  at  anything  that  is  mine." 

"  Unless  it  be  a  stare  of  envious  admiration," 
Marjorie  corrected. 

"  Granted  ;  and  Marjorie  never  lets  me  alone 
about  it.  She  says  that  I  am  not  loyal — that 
ridicule  could  make  me  forego  the  love  of  my 
life  ;  what  else,  Marjorie  ?  " 

"  That  if  it  were  the  fashion  to  admire  bald- 
headed,  cross-eyed  women,  Claude  would  never 
be  contented  until  he  possessed  a  wife  with  a 
head  like  a  billiard  ball,  and  eyes  that  lapped ; 
but  that  if  the  fashion  changed,  he  would  per 
suade  her  into  a  sisterhood  or  a  widows'  home, 
even  if  it  broke  what  he  calls  his  heart.  He  can 
not  stand  the  criticism  even  of  Waters,  here." 


JOHN  PA  GET.  159 

"  My  word,  Marjorie,  you  draw  it  strong  !  Now 
won't  you  give  us  a  companion  picture  of  Jack  ? 
If  I  am  not  mistaken,  I  have  seen  a  very  different 
criticism  of  him  in  your  eyes." 

"  Quite  different  !  "  Marjorie  answered.  "  If 
Mr.  Paget  loved  a  person,  the  opinion  of  the 
world  would  be  to  him  as  a  wind  that  had  blown 
itself  away  before  this  country  was  discovered. 
If  he  should  meet  a  friend  in  rags  on  Fifth  Ave 
nue,  he  would  walk  with  him  to  his  tailor's  and 
clothe  him.  If  his  friend  failed  in  reading  the 
service,  he  would  go  up  to  the  chancel  when  the 
service  was  over,  and  shake  hands  with  him  and 
bring  him  home  to  dinner." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  and  John  laughed  ;  Claude's 
eyes  flashed,  but  after  a  second's  pause  he  an 
swered  amiably  : 

"  I  believe  he  would,  Marjie  ;  and  nobody  in 
the  world  admires  that  sort  of  pluck  more  than 
I  do,  but  I  haven't  got  it." 

"You  should  cultivate  it,  my  dear,  seeing  how 
patiently  I  have  lectured  you  about  it." 

"There  has  been  no  lack  of  lecturing,  but  the 
process  is  disagreeable  ;  and  to  what  purpose?" 

"The  making  of  character.  Don't  you  re- 
member  the  sermon  that  stranger  preached  not 
long  ago  on  character — the  only  thing  worth 
having — the  only  thing  that  outlasts  '  this  world 
and  the  fireworks '  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  was  a  strong  sermon,  and  if  I  believed 
in  the  kind  of  future  that  he  believed  in,  why 


160  JOHN  PA  GET. 

then  that  kind  of  supernumerary,  supererogatory, 
superlative  character  would  be  worth  striving  for. 
But  that  future,  if  indeed  there  is  any,  is  an  un 
known  quantity,  and  the  theological  road  to  it  is 
marvelously  circuitous.  What  do  you  say,  Jack  ?  " 
Clasping  his  hands  behind  his  head.  "  A  moment 
ago  you  said  something  that  had  a  strong,  if  a 
strange,  sound  ;  give  me  your  views  on  the  sub 
ject." 

"On  the  future  life,  or  on  your  attitude?  I 
do  not  know  where  you  stand.  Tell  me  what 
you  believe,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  I  know." 

"  Give  me  what  you  know  for  what  /believe," 
Claude  said  ;  "  a  poor  exchange,  for  I  am  certain 
only  of  my  uncertainty.  Better  let  me  tell  you 
what  I  think  you  would  like  me  to  believe." 

"  Very  well." 

Claude  rested  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his 
chair,  put  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together,  and 
leaning  back  looked  at  the  ceiling.  There  was 
silence  for  a  moment,  then  Claude  dropped  his 
hands  together  in  his  lap. 

"It  would  seem  blasphemous  to  you,"  he  said. 

John  gave  him  a  quick  look.  "  What  I  want 
you  to  believe  cannot  be  blasphemous." 

"No,  but  my  way  of  putting  it — "  and  Claude 
passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"Do  not  put  it  that  way,  then.  Since  you  do 
not  look  on  me  as  a  fool,  and  since  I  hold  these 
views,  there  must  at  least  be  another  side  of  the 
question;  since  there  is  a  question,  there  must  be 


JOHN  PAGET.  161 

a  doubt — take  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  then  ;  take 
it  thankfully,  and  state  your  proposition  as  rever 
ently  as  may  be." 

The  quick  color  sprang  to  Claude's  face,  and 
the  light  to  his  eyes,  but  after  a  moment's  pause 
he  put  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together  as  before, 
and,  once  more  looking  at  the  ceiling,  began 
quietly. 

"  You  would  have  me  believe  in  a  personal  God. 
who  made  man  in  his  own  image,  pure  and  sinless, 
and  intended  that  he  should  remain  sp.  That  this 
man  was  tempted  by  the  devil,  an  unaccounted 
for  being,  and  fell.  This  fall  brought  death. 
Humanity  once  having  succumbed,  sin  was  fas 
cinating,  and  the  devil  frustrated  the  plans  of  the 
Almighty  so  entirely  that  the  earth  had  to  be  puri 
fied  by  a  flood.  After  a  few  ages,  however,  the  hu 
man  race  was  worse  than  before,  and  the  anger  of 
the  Almighty  could  be  appeased  only  by  sacrifice  ; 
and  the  only  sacrifice  that  could  satisfy  the 
justice  of  this  loving  God,  so  that  his  mercy  could 
be  extended  to  the  miserable  creatures  that  he 
had  created,  was  the  incarnation,  daily  suffer 
ing,  and  death  of  his  Son,  the  second  person 
of  a  mysterious  Trinity."  Claude  paused.  "A 
moment  ago  you  gave  a  different  turn  to  that 
point." 

"  Of  course  !  "  and  John,  rising,  rested  one 
elbow  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  looked  down  on 
his  brother.  "  You  have  not  stated  Christian 
ity  at  all.  To  begin.  Man  was  created  with 


1 62  JOHN  PA  GET. 

a  will,  free  to  obey  or  disobey.  You  know 
this." 

"  Know  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  know  it.  What  you  cannot  help  think 
ing,  that  you  know.  You  cannot  think  yourself 
an  automaton,  therefore  you  know  that  you  are 
free.  And  these  things  that  you  cannot  help 
thinking  are  revelations.  Your  own  existence  is 
one.  Man  was  created  free,  then  ;  anything  else 
is  unthinkable.  Now  take  the  exquisitely  simple 
story  of  the  fall  ;  treat  it  as  you  will,  and  one 
fact  remains — the  law  of  righteousness  was 
transgressed,  and  death  came  as  it  comes  to-day 
to  such  transgressions.  Transgress  the  law  of 
righteousness  to-day,  and  you  are  punished  by 
the  crippling  or  death  of  that  much  good  in  your 
nature.  The  law  carries  its  own  punishment. 
To  say  law,  is  to  say  obedience  or  disobedience. 
Disobedience  is  sin  ;  sin  means  all  the  ills  that 
flesh  is  heir  to.  The  law  of  heredity  brought  the 
sin  down  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation,  and 
we  say  now,  '  Man  is  born  to  sorrow  as  the 
sparks  fly  upward.'  The  cure  for  all  this  is 
obedience,  and  obedience  is  the  one  motive  that 
the  Christ  ever  gave  for  his  coming  into  this 
world.  He  came  to  work.  Was  sent  to  estab 
lish  this  'kingdom  of  obedience' — the  Church, 
to  bring  us  once  more  into  our  true  relations 
with  the  Father." 

"  A  personal  God  ?  " 

"Yes." 


JOHN  PA  GET.  163 

Claude  shook  his  head.     "  I  cannot,"  he  said. 

"  You  believe  such  a  thing  as  '  good  '  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  As  I  see  it  in  you " 

"  Thanks  ;  I  do  not  want  an  imaginary  portrait 
of  myself,  and  you  have  granted  my  proposition 
before  it  is  made — that  you  cannot  think  of 
good  as  something  suspended  in  the  air;  you 
must  think  of  it  as  inhering  in  something.  Now 
you  may  doubt  good  if  you  choose,  but  you  can 
not  make  such  a  mistake  as  to  doubt  the  exist 
ence  of  Claude  Van  Kuyster,  for  the  very  doubt 
proves  that  there  is  one  who  doubts.  Claiming 
this  revelation  of  self-existence  for  yourself,  you 
must  grant  it  to  all  the  creatures  in  the  universe, 
and  hope  that  each  has  his  little  germ  of  good. 
Now  the  greatest  good  must  reside  in  the  highest 
Personality — call  this  '  the  Unknowable,'  call 
this  '  The  All-Being,'  the  '  First  Cause,'  the 
'  Stream  of  Tendency  ' — if  .you  like  ;  for  me  there 
is  but  one  name,  God  the  Father.  For  that 
which  satisfies  the  insatiable  craving  for  a  final 
cause — that  which  is  the  sum  of  all  good,  there 
fore  of  all  that  is  true  and  beautiful — that  is  my 
God." 

"  Now  to  the  next  proposition,"  Claude  said, 
"  that  He  made  man  in  his  own  image." 

"  Very  well.  Here  we  meet  again  those  limi 
tations — those  things  that  we  cannot  help  think 
ing,  and  those  things  that  are  unthinkable.  We 


164  JOHN  PA  GET. 

cannot  help  thinking  '  Good  ' — we  cannot  think 
good  apart  from  some  form.  We  have  no  celestial 
imagination  by  which  to  produce  a  celestial  form, 
nor  any  celestial  language  in  which  to  describe  it, 
so  we  are  forced  to  say  in  finite  humility,  '  in  his 
own  image  ' — the  form  he  gave  as  highest,  the 
best  we  know.  You  may  protest  against  it  as 
anthropomorphic,  but  you  can  think  nothing  else. 
And  this 'in  his  own  image'  means  freewill — 
the  sense  of  good  and  evil — the  law  of  obligation, 
the  immense  '  Ought  '  that  '  makes  for  righteous 
ness ' — that  dominates  the  universe,  and  against 
which  we  so  often  beat  out  our  little  lives — 
the  law  that  leads  us,  whether  we  will  or  no,  to 
a  lawgiver — your  First  Cause,  my  God.  Now, 
just  here,  I  will  grant  you  everything  that 
natural  selection  and  evolution  can  prove.  But 
the  moment  when  the  '  divine  spark '  that 
'  makes  for  righteousness/  came  to  the  clod,  or 
the  ape,  or  what  you  will ;  at  that  immortal  mo 
ment,  God  made  man,  and  'breathed  into  his 
nostrils  the  breath  of  life.'  Evolution  only  adds 
to  the  miraculousness  and  the  glory  of  it  all. 
The  flood  we  will  leave  to  the  geologists;  grant 
ing,  however,  that  the  purification  was  needed." 

"  And  the  devil  ?  "  Claude  said. 

"  Is  evil  personified." 

"  You  hold  to  a  personal  devil  ?  " 

"  Yes.  A  fallen  angel.  Angels  are  as  free  to 
disobey  as  we  are,  and  this  Prince  of  Evil,  the 
founder  of  the  kingdom  of  disobedience,  had  the 


JOHN  PA  GET.  165 

splendid  audacity  to  approach  the  son  of  God 
himself." 

"  I  thought  that  was  allegory." 

"  If  one  part  of  the  Scripture  is  allegory,  why 
not  all  ?  where  will  you  stop  ?  Because  a  thing  is 
difficult  for  our  finiteness  to  compass,  are  we  to 
call  it  allegory?  You  cannot  understand  your 
own  walking  stick,  and  why  it  must  have  two 
ends,  but  you  do  not  for  that  relegate  your  walk 
ing  stick  to  the  realm  of  allegory.  Impersonal 
good  and  evil  are  as  unthinkable  as  a  one-ended 
walking  stick." 

Marjorie  laughed.  "  That  one-ended  stick  will 
torment  me  forever,"  she  said  ;  "  I  shall  dream  of 
sticks  that  stretch  into  infinity — I  shall  spend  my 
life  in  extending  them.  What  a  horrid  sugges 
tion." 

"  And  what  do  you  do  with  the  literary  criti 
cism  of  Scripture?"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  asked. 

"  I  read  it.  It  is  plausible,  poetical,  and  some 
of  it  is  well  done  ;  but  no  one  mortal  critic  can 
decide  spiritual  things  for  me." 

"  I  agree  with  you  entirely  on  that  point," 
Claude  said.  "  I  maintain  always  that  there  is  no 
logical  stopping  place;  you  must  believe  all  or 
none.  After  the  best  translation  is  made,  after 
the  canon  of  Scripture  is  decided,  then,  for  a 
Christian,  there  can  be  no  further  tampering — all 
or  none." 

"  And  I  hold  it  all,"  John  said. 

"  Believe  all  the  miracles  as  you  believe  that  I 


1 66  JOHN  PA  GET. 

sit  here?"  Marjorie  asked.  "  Take  the  stories  of 
the  Gospels  as  historical  facts?  " 

"As  every  kind  of  fact,"  John  answered. 
"  Believe  it  as  I  believe  in  Christopher  Columbus 
and  George  Washington." 

"How  can  you  !  "  Claude  said  as  if  involun 
tarily,  rising  from  his  chair. 

"  How  is  it  possible  not  to  !  "  and  John's  eyes 
flashed.  "  Give  up  the  Scriptures,  give  up  every 
thing  except  the  one  central,  incontrovertible 
fact  that  Jesus  of  Nazareth" — and  he  bowed  his 
head  reverently — "  lived  on  earth,  and  then  gtf  to 
history  and  trace  his  work.  Try  again  ;  recon 
struct  history  without  the  Christ,  give  us  civiliza 
tion  as  we  have  it  to-day,  bad  as  it  is,  without 
his  system  of  morals.  You  cannot  ;  Christ  and 
his  kingdom,  the  Church,  permeate  the  whole 
universe.  The  taking  up  of  our  humanity  into 
his  divinity  has  made  man  a  different  creature." 

"And  the  ages  before  Christ?  " 

"God  has  never  been  without  a  witness  in  the 
world.  All  truth,  all  beauty,  all  good,  wherever 
found,  is  a  revelation  of  himself.  God  is  imma 
nent  in  his  universe,  and  miracles  cease  to  be 
miraculous." 

Claude  shook  his  head.  "  You  put  it  well,"  he 
said  ;  "  but  the  faculty,  or  the  sense,  or  whatever 
it  may  be  that  is  required  to  grasp  it,  that  thing 
I  have  not  got.  What  is  it  ?  " 

"There  are  several  things  required,"  John 
answered  ;  "  a  little  common  sense  to  recognize 


JOHN  PA  GET.  167 

* 

your  limitations  ;  a  little  humility  to  grant  them  ; 
a  little  reason  to  see  that  you  cannot  think  effect 
without  thinking  cause,  that  you  cannot  think 
evil  without  thinking  good,  that  you  cannot 
think  matter  without  thinking  spirit.  You  need 
clearer  eyes  to  see  that  the  limited  and  the  rela 
tive  bring  home  to  us  the  absolute,  that  the 
finite  is  outlined  on  the  infinite,  that  death 
means  life,  and  the  universe  shows  us  God.  In 
the  midst  of  all  this  mystery  we  grope  and  cry  as 
a  little  child  cries  in  the  darkness,  and  our  only 
hope  is  to  grasp  our  Father's  hand.  Faith  as  a 
little  child,  and  our  eyes  are  opened." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  will  admit  that  I  lack 
all  these  other  things,"  Claude  said,  "  but  on  faith 
I  lay  no  claim.  I  think  I  was  born  without  it. 
As  a  child  I  was  told  that  God  made  me  ;  I 
asked  Mr.  Van  Kuyster,  '  Who  made  God  ?  ' 

"And  what  did  he  answer?"  Mrs.  Van  Kuy 
ster  asked. 

Claude  shook  his  head.  "  I  do  not  like  to  re 
peat  it,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I  laughed,  and  he  gave 
me  a  gold  dollar." 


rffr 


XII. 

"  The  door  was  shut.     I  looked  between 
Its  iron  bars  ;  and  saw  it  lie, 
My  garden,  mine,  beneath  the  sky, 
Pied  with  all  flowers  bedewed  and  green. 

A  shadowless  spirit  kept  the  gate, 
Blank  and  unchanging  like  the  grave. 
I,  peering  through,  said  :  '  Let  me  have 

Some  buds  to  cheer  my  outcast  state.' 

He  answered  not.     '  Or  give  me,  then, 
But  one  small  twig  from  shrub  or  tree  ; 
And  bid  my  home  remember  me 

Until  I  come  to  it  again.' 

The  spirit  was  silent ;  but  he  took 

Mortar  and  stone  to  build  a  wall ; 

He  left  no  loophole  great  or  small 
Through  which  my  straining  eyes  might  look." 

WALKING  to  his  club  that  afternoon, 
Claude's  step  was  slower,  and  when  he 
reached  his  destination  his  manner  was  more 
preoccupied  than  usual.  After  the  briefest  greet 
ings,  he  took  his  seat  near  a  window  with  his 
back  to  the  room,  and  a  paper  as  excuse  for 
silence.  • 

A  new  view  of  life  had  been  presented  to  him, 
a  view  he  had  known  of,  but  that  had  never  been 
brought  home  to  him  until  now.  Now  he  stood 

1 68 


JOHN  PA  GET.  169 

side  by  side  with  a  man  he  was  bound  to  respect 
and  in  a  measure  look  up  to ;  a  man  who  had 
tested  life,  and  who  was  no  "goody,"  for  manli 
ness  showed  in  every  movement  and  sounded  in 
every  tone,  and  yet  he  took  this  view. 

Could  he  have  taken  John's  training,  and  would 
John  have  taken  his?  Would  John  have  been 
satisfied,  even  for  a  little  while,  with  life  as  he, 
Claude,  looked  at  it  ?  John  seemed  perfectly 
willing  that  other  people  should  take  life  lightly 
and  cheerfully,  should  laugh  and  see  the  farce  of 
it  all ;  but  for  himself,  John  seemed  to  be  forever 
looking  through  the  flimsy  show  to  the  tragic 
background.  That  the  background  of  life  was 
tragedy,  everyone  knew  who  thought  at  all  ;  but 
why  live  with  this  always  in  mind  ?  The  tragedy 
was  the  part  that  lasted,  and  it  was  the  earnestness 
of  John's  nature  that  turned  him  to  it.  To  him 
the  life  and  Christianity  of  the  Van  Kuysters' 
world  must  seem  like  stucco  work  and  ginger 
bread  trimming.  Already,  this  afternoon,  he  had 
betrayed  the  scorn  he  felt  for  it.  Soon  this 
scorn  would  extend  to  the  people  who  could  be 
satisfied  with  such  shams,  for  John  really  believed. 
How  strange  that  in  this  age  a  man  like  John 
should  hold  as  vital  truths  things  which,  if  science 
and  literary  criticism  had  not  entirely  destroyed 
them,  were  at  best  held  in  mild  solution  ;  things 
that  had  been  spared  only  because  they  had 
served  so  long  as  moral  police  that  the  world, 
feeling  some  obligation  to  them,  had  pensioned 


170  OHN  PA  GET. 

them  off,  as  it  were,  or  had  turned  them  out  to 
graze.  Yet  to  John  this  old  creed  was  a  living 
thing — a  thing  for  which  he  would  give  his  life. 

And  after  all,  was  he  not  wise  ?  Was  not  life 
more  worth  living  to  him  than  to  most  people  ? 
He  had,  at  least,  something  to  strive  for  in  the 
race — a  crown  that  he  believed  to  be  incorruptible. 
And  if  all  the  crowns  were  alike  of  straw,  and  all 
who  strove  for  them  more  or  less  idiots — the  man 
who  believed  that  his  crown  was  imperishable  gold 
might  be  the  greatest  idiot,  but  was  he  not  at  the 
same  time  the  happiest  man?  How  strange  to 
have  the  strong  belief  of  John,  or  the  unquestion 
ing  faith  of  Beatrice. 

He  put  dovtn  for  a  moment  the  screening 
paper  he  had  not  read,  and  lighted  a  cigar. 

Should  he  go  over  to  them,  or  bring  Beatrice 
over  to  him  ;  or  would  it  be  better  to  stay  where 
he  was,  and  to  leave  her  in  the  mystic  dreamland 
that  seemed  to  satisfy  her?  Win  her  he  would, 
but  could  he  do  it  and  not  touch  her  faith  ?  How 
would  it  do  to  have  a  wife  who  looked  on  one  with 
doubt?  Did  the  child  have  any  faith  save  in  the 
people  who  had  guided  her  life — had  not  the 
Mother  been  her  religion,  and  was  not  John  her 
religion  now  ?  She  was  in  awe  of  John  as  she  had 
been  of  the  Mother,  but  it  was  the  reverential 
awe  that  was  the  surest  foundation  in  the  world 
for  hero  worship.  Could  she  have  John  for  her 
ideal  and  Claude  for  her  lover?  And  through 
the  drifting  rings  of  smoke  rose  up  the  soft  eyes 


JOHN  FACET.  I? I 

of  the  girl  who  had  so  disarranged  his  carefully 
planned  life. 

No.  Whatever  might  be  the  result,  he,  Claude, 
must  be  her  ideal,  her  crown,  her  religion.  She 
was  still  asleep,  and  the  vision  that  should  waken 
her  would  be  the  dream  of  her  life.  John  loved 
her,  yet  he  seemed  unconsciously  to  be  righting 
against  the  realization  of  the  fact.  Why,  was  a 
mystery.  She  would  hamper  him  in  his  race, 
maybe  ?  Claude  laughed  a  low  laugh.  Which 
was  the  greater  fool :  he,  who  would  put  his  life 
into  the  keeping  of  an  undeveloped  child,  or  John, 
who  would  put  aside  everything  pleasant  for  the 
sake  of  an  exploded  idea  ?  John,  with  youth,  and 
strength,  and  beauty,  and  wealth,  turning  aside 
to  be  an  ascetic.  To  live  on  a  high  moral  plane 
where  only  highly  moral  and  spiritual  flowers 
would  grow.  Did  he  fight  against  loving  Bea 
trice  because  he  knew  that  she  could  not  live 
there  ?  She  could  not.  She  could  be  a  nun  and 
live  in  one  long  passion  of  religious  ecstasy ;  or 
she  could  be  a  woman  and  make  her  life  one  long 
passion  of  devotion  ;  but  a  cool  love,  a  friendly 
affection,  that  would  be  death.  Her  mother  had 
died  from  no  known  cause  ;  perhaps  she  had  been 
starved  on  a  high  spiritual  plane — bleached  out 
of  life. 

He  looked  out  on  the  passing  throng,  all  in 
holiday  dress.  Were  they  as  contented  as  they 
seemed,  as  contented  as  he  had  been  before  the 
entrance  of  this  new  force  into  his  life  ?  But  why 


172  JOHN  PA  GET. 

should  he  be  discontented  ;  why  could  not  he 
love  Beatrice  naturally  and  heartily,  and  ask  the 
same  kind  of  love  in  return  ?  What  was  the 
necessity  of  all  this  introspection  and  discussion  ; 
why  not  ignore  all  differences  and  be  comfort 
able  ?  Was  it  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  or  John  who 
made  all  this  to  do,  or  was  it  his  own  question 
ing,  dissatisfied  self?  He  would  go  home  at 
once,  and  make  a  new  common-sense  beginning. 
Beatrice  would  be  rested  by  this,  and  be  down 
stairs,  and  John  would  be  gone  to  church. 

He  found  Beatrice  sitting  alone  in  the  study, 
looking  through  the  open  doors  of  the  conser 
vatory. 

"  Do  you  think  it  a  sin  to  go  into  the  con 
servatory  on  Sunday?"  Claude  asked  as  he 
entered. 

Beatrice  started.  "No,  oh,  no!"  she  answered, 
"  the  Mother  used  to  make  Sunday  the  nicest  day 
of  all.  I  did  not  go  in  because ' 

"Because?"  Claude  repeated,  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  fire,  and  looking  down  on  her. 

"  Because  the  smell  of  the  roses  makes  me 
homesick.  I  know  it  is  weak,  and  ungrateful  too, 
and  I  am  trying  to  overcome  it,"  looking  up 
wistfully.  "That  is  the  reason  I  am  sitting 
here." 

"You  are  trying  to  be  a  ridiculous  little  mar 
tyr,"  and  drawing  a  low  chair  close  to  her,  Claude 
sat  down.  • 

"  Now,  listen  to  me,"  he  began  ;  "  if  the  flowers 


JOHN  PA  GET.  173 

make  you  sad,  the  conservatory  shall  be  closed 
at  once." 

"  Do  you  think  me  so  weak  as  that  ?  Why  the 
Mother  would  be  ashamed,  and  John  would  be 
mortified.  We  ought  to  fight  against  such  things, 
and  be  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  learn  self-con 
trol.  Everybody  tells  me  that." 

"/do  not,"  Claude  answered.  "We  are  put 
into  this  world  to  be  happy,  and  why  not  be 
happy  ?  If  the  conservatory  makes  you  unhappy, 
close  it  ;  I  only  opened  it  because  I  thought  it 
would  please  you." 

"  It  did — it  does  !  It  would  hurt  me  dreadfully 
to  shut  it  up." 

"Why?" 

"  First  of  all,  John  would  be ' 

"  Confound  John  !  "  Claude  broke  in,  "  I  do 
not  care  a  straw  about  John's  opinion  ;  he  pre 
fers  being  miserable,  and  would  rather  enjoy 
being  roasted  by  a  slow  fire  ;  but  you  were  not 
made  for  that  sort  of  nonsense.  You  ought  not 
to  cry  any  more  than  the  flowers  do  ;  you  ought 
to  have  sunshine  all  the  time,  and  you  shall. 
Martyrs  are  tough,  rawboned  dyspeptics,  who 
are  not  happy  unless  they  are  miserable,  who  go 
about  the  world  begging  people  to  step  on  their 
coat-tails.  You  are  too  young  and  too  pretty  for 
any  such  folly.  To-day  you  were  tired  out  by 
that  stupid  sermon,  and  now  you  are  made  sad 
by  the  flowers.  If  you  do  not  get  better,  you 
shall  not  go  to  church,  and  the  flowers  shall  be 


i?4  JOHN  PA  GET. 

banished.  You  may  obey  John  in  his  house,  but 
I  am  master  in  this  house  and  you  must  obey 
me.  I  shall  shut  the  conservatory." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  Beatrice  cried,  springing  up  and 
laying  a  detaining  hand  on  his  arm,  "  I  beg 
that  you  will  not  ;  I  had  much  rather  that  you 
took  me  into  it,  and  let  me  become  accustomed 
to  it." 

Claude  stood  a  moment  looking  down  into  the 
pathetic  face  so  near  his  own,  and  a  shiver  ran 
over  him,  and  the  afternoon's  thoughts  came  back 
to  him  ;  how  much  better  to  go  through  life  with 
the  little  hands  held  close  in  his  !  Only  a  mo 
ment  he  paused,  then  took  hold  of  Beatrice's 
wrist. 

"  Come,  then,  I  will  let  you  enjoy  martyrdom 
for  a  little  while,  I  playing  torturer.  Come!" 
and  he  led  her  down  the  one  step  that  separated 
the  study  from  the  conservatory.  "  Now,  remem 
ber  that  I  am  going  to  try  my  best  to  hurt  you, 
give  you  such  a  good  dose  of  misery  that  you 
will  never  yearn  to  be  a  martyr  again." 

Beatrice  laughed  a  little,  but  there  was  a  puz 
zled  look  in  her  eyes.  "  You  are  so  queer !  " 
she  said,  "  I  never  seem  to  understand  you." 

"Of  course  not,"  Claude  answered;  "for  you 
are  a  provincial  saint,  while  I  am  a  metropolitan 
sinner.  But  come,  let  us  do  the  martyr  act. 
Cross  your  hands  behind  your  back  ;  cross  them 
so  that  I  can  tie  them  at  the  wrists;  you  gesticu 
late  a  great  deal  when  your  feelings  are  excited, 


JOHN  PA  GET.  175 

and  you  must  not  have  the  relief  of  gesture,  for  that 
is  weak,"  and  with  his  handkerchief  he  skillfully 
tied  the  wrists  that  at  his  bidding  she  had  crossed. 
"  Now,  shut  your  eyes,  for  they  might  move 
me  to  mercy,  and  I  must  not  be  merciful.  Chris 
tians  must  be  strong.  Now,  you  may  sit  down, 
for  it  is  only  morally  that  I  wish  to  torture  you, 
not  physically,"  and  he  led  her  to  the  seat  where 
the  day  before  she  had  sat  to  try  the  guitar. 
"  Now,"  he  went  on,  picking  a  rose  and  taking  his 
seat  beside  her,  but  with  averted  face,  "  keep 
your  eyes  close  shut,  and  think  as  I  tell  you. 
Do  you  remember  how  the  roses  grew  in  the 
Convent  garden  ?  Smelling  this  rose  I  have 
purposely  bruised  will  make  you  remember  bet 
ter.  This  is  a  Christian  rose  ;  it  smells  so  sweet 
because  I  have  bruised  it,  and  I  bruised  it  for  my 
pleasure  and  your  pain.  How  sweet  it  is!  almost 
as  sweet  as  the  Convent  roses  that  used  to  peep 
through  the  grating  of  the  gate  to  see  the  rip 
pling  waters  of  the  gulf.  Do  you  remember 
how  blue  the  sky  was,  and  how  the  white  clouds 
were  blown  this  way  and  that,  and  lying  flat  on 
your  back  you  used  to  watch  them  and  wonder 
where  they  came  from  and  where  they  were 
going?  And  how  above  you  the  roses  nodded 
in  the  wind,  and  the  jasmine  seemed  to  be  sweeter 
than  all  of  life  together?  How  softly  the  Con 
vent  bell  would  ring  for  the  Sisters  to  kneel  and 
pray  by  the  lighted  altar,  how  the  oleanders 
peeped  in  at  the  chapel  windows,  and  the  mock- 


1 76  JOHN  PAGET. 

ing-birds  sang  all  the  live-long  night.  Do  you 
remember  ?  And  the  water  was  so  blue,  and  the 
curving  beach  so  white,  and  in  the  hot,  still  sum 
mer  days  the  whole  wide  land  seemed  dead — still 
and  dead,  save  when  a  bee  drowsed  from  one 
flower  to  another,  or  a  bird  fluttered  in  the  leaves. 
Do  you  remember  how  sweet  it  all  was,  how 
peaceful  ?  Do  not  you  long  to  go  back — long 
for  the  simple  love  and  the  peace  and  the  rest  ? 
But  now  it  would  not  be  the  same,  for  now  you 
have  listened  to  the  hum  of  the  world,  you  have 
heard  far  off  the  cry  of  pain  that  has  no  answer, 
the  echo  of  problems  that  none  can  solve ;  you 
have  put  your  lips  to  the  cup  of  life,  and  nothing 
would  seem  the  same.  Nothing  will  ever  seem 
the  same  again,  for  you  are  waking  from  the 
dream  of  childhood.  Do  you  believe  me?" 
His  voice  ceased  and  he  waited  for  a  sign,  but 
no  sign  came,  and  he  repeated,  "  Do  you  remem 
ber — do  you  believe  me  ?  "  Still  no  answer,  and 
turning  quickly,  he  found  the  great  dark  eyes 
wide  open,  and  fixed  reproachfully  on  his  averted 
face. 

"  You  really  wanted  to  hurt  me,"  she  said.  "  I 
thought  you  were  in  fun,  but  you  were  not,  for 
you  turned  your  head  away  ;  you  meant  to  hurt 
me,  but  you  could  not  bear  to  see  the  pain.  Un 
tie  my  hands ! " 

"  Not  yet,"  Claude  answered,  "  not  until  you 
have  learned  your  lesson  thoroughly.  Yes,  you 
are  right,"  he  went  on  gravely  ;  "  I  meant  to  hurt 


JOHN  PA  GET.  177 

you,  and  I  would  not  look  because  I  could  not  bear 
to  hurt  one  whom  I  love.  You  believe  that  John 
loves  you,  and  you  say  John  thinks  that  you 
ought  to  bear  pain — useless  pain  like  enduring 
these  flowers — in  order  to  grow  strong.  You  be 
lieve  that  the  Mother  loves  you,  and  you  say  the 
Mother  thinks  that  you  ought  to  control  yourself 
— useless  self-control — in  order  to  grow  strong. 
Now,  /think  all  this  is  foolish,  but  my  opinion 
has  no  weight  ;  you  have  no  faith  in  me  because 
I  say,  '  Be  happy.'  This  afternoon  I  have  hurt 
you  unnecessarily  for  two  reasons — to  show  you 
how  foolish  such  pain  is — to  show  you  that 
though  I  wish  for  you  nothing  but  happiness  in 
your  life,  though  I  am  so  frivolous  as  to  insist 
that  this  kind  of  self-denial  is  nonsense;  in  spite 
of  this  radical  difference  between  me  and  John — 
that  I  love  you  too,  and  hurt  you,  and  hurt  my 
self  in  order  to  prove  it  to  you.  I  hurt  myself 
a  thousand  times  more  than  I  hurt  you.  It  hurt 
me  to  tie  your  little  hands — to  bring  you  in 
here,  and  every  syllable  of  every  word  I  said  held 
for  me  a  separate  pain.  I  can  never  forgive  my 
self,  but  if  it  is  only  by  paining  you  that  I  can 
win  your  faith,  I  will  leave  no  kind  of  pain  un 
tried." 

The  girl  rose  quickly.  "You  are  hurting  me 
now,"  she  said,  her  voice  trembling,  "  hurting  me 
more  than  anyone  ever  did  before.  Untie  my 
hands;  untie  them  and  let  me  go!" 

Claude  obeyed  her.      "  You   will    not  believe 


I?8  JOHN  PA  GET. 

me?  "  he  asked,  "  well,  I  will  not  insist,"  and  fol 
lowing  her  into  the  study,  he  shut  and  locked  the 
conservatory  doors,  and  put  the  key  into  his 
pocket. 

"  What  is  that  for?"  asked  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster, 
who  at  the  same  moment  entered  the  study  from 
the  hall. 

"The  flowers  give  Beatrice  the  blues,"  Claude 
answered,  "and  she  must  not  have  the  blues,  she 
must  have  a  tonic." 

"  I  begged  him  not,  Aunt  Claudia." 

"  I  agree  with  Claude,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said. 
"  I  would  shut  up  a  hundred  conservatories 
rather  than  be  depressed." 

"It  is  weak,"  the  girl  insisted. 

"  Be  weak,  then.  Anything  is  better  than  use 
less  misery.  There  will  be  plenty  of  pain  in  your 
life  ;  do  not  adopt  gratuitous  suffering.  Above 
all,  do  not  be  morbid  and  introspective;  it  is  not 
wholesome." 

"But  self-examination  is  a  duty." 

"  Not  always.  Where  one  has  a  vital  decision 
to  make  it  may  be  very  well,  but  very  few  deci 
sions  are  vital.  We  generally  use  the  first  as  a 
weapon  with  which  to  commit  either  mental  or 
moral  suicide,  and  of  course  no  following  deci 
sion  can  be  vital.  But  the  shutting  up  or  open 
ing  of  the  conservatory  can  scarcely  be  vital." 

"  John  says  that  every  decision  either  weakens 
or  strengthens  one." 

"Perhaps,   as  a   rule,  but  not    always.     Some 


JOHN  PA  GET.  179 

people  stand  very  near  to  nature,  and  are  very 
direct,  very  simple,  very  true.  They  believe  im 
plicitly,  they  love  intensely  ;  and  falseness  of  any 
kind  is  a  pain  to  them.  A  nature  like  this  does 
not  need  the  religious  training  as  represented  by 
confessions,  and  meditations,  and  penances — all 
made  for  the  intricate  and  false ;  it  turns  to  the 
truth  naturally,  and  needs  only  room  to  grow  and 
to  expand — needs  happiness  and  a  tonic." 

Beatrice  started.  "  But,  indeed,  Aunt  Clau 
dia,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  was  happy  at  the  Con 
vent — from  morning  until  night  I  was  happy,  for 
I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  obey.  But  ever  since 
I  left,  things  have  been  growing  confused  to  me. 
Whenever  I  asked  the  Mother:  '  Is  this  right,'  or 
'wrong'?  she  always  answered:  'Yes,'  or  'no'; 
but  when  I  asked  John,  he  would  say  :  '  What 
does  your  own  judgment,'  or  '  your  own  conscience 
tell  you?'  My  judgment  and  my  conscience? 
Why,  just  as  soon  as  I  act  on  a  decision,  I  am 
sure  it  is  wrong." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  laughed.  "  Poor  child,"  she 
said,  "'the  divine  right  of  private  judgment'  is 
wasted  on  you.  But  now  that  you  belong  to  us, 
you  need  not  use  it;  we  will  only  require  you  to 
do  what  is  pleasant,  and  be  happy." 

Beatrice  looked  doubtful. 

"  She  has  no  faith  in  us,  mother,"  Claude  said. 

"  Indeed  I  have,  Aunt  Claudia,  only  your 
orders  are  different  again.  The  Mother  used  to 
say :  '  Only  right  things  are  pleasant.'  Then 


i8o  JOHN  PA  GET. 

John  said  :  '  Do  it  because  it  is  right,  and  remem 
ber  that  right  things  are  seldom  the  pleasantest.' 
Now  you  say,"  looking  from  one  to  the  other, 
"  '  Whatever  is  pleasant  is  right.  Be  happy.'  ' 

"  And  happiness  seems  wrong  ?  " 

"  From  Beatrice's  standpoint,  happiness  and 
self-indulgence  are  one,"  Claude  said  gravely, 
"  and  I,  for  one,  shall  treat  her  very  differently." 

"  I  would  rather  that  you  left  me  to  Aunt 
Claudia,"  the  girl  answered,  with  a  gentle  dignity 
that  was  quite  new,  but  that  became  her  wonder- 
fully. 

"You  have  quarreled  with  Beatrice?"  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  asked  that  night  when  they  were 
alone  in  the  study. 

"  Beatrice  thinks  we  have  quarreled  ;  in  reality, 
I  am  just  waking  her  up.  Her  unconsciousness 
is  very  fresh  and  sweet  in  the  abstract,  but  not 
as  applied  to  me." 

"  And  you  locked  the  conservatory  to  make 
her  feel  your  power?"  With  an  amused  smile. 

"  No,  I  locked  it  because  she  was  using  it  as  a 
penance,  compelling  herself  to  endure  the  home 
sickness  which  the  flowers  produced.  It  was  bad 
for  her  health,  and  I  thought  a  little  counter- 
irritant  in  the  shape  of  anger  would  be  whole 
some.  Her  Roman  Catholic  ancestry  comes  out 
very  strong  in  her;  she  absolutely  needs  laws 
and  infallibility;  before  long  I  will  be  her  Pope." 

Mrs.  Van    Kuyster   shook   her   head.      "  Her 


JOHN  PA  GET.  l8l 

belief  has  been  so  ground  into  her,"  she  said, 
"  that  unless  you  adopt  it,  you  will  never  wear 
the  triple  crown  of  her  respect,  her  faith,  her 
love." 

"  Well  said  !  "  and  Claude  bowed.  "  And  I 
would  rather  talk  to  you,  as  you  show  yourself 
now,  than  to  anyone  I  know  ;  nevertheless,  you 
will  see  me  Beatrice's  Pope." 

"  You  may  make  her  love  you,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  said  ;  "  you  may  even  lead  her  aside 
from  her  beliefs;  but  the  moment  she  discovers 
that  she  has  wandered,  she  will  turn  back,  and 
you  will  not  be  able  to  hold  her.  Religion  is  in 
that  girl's  flesh  and  blood,  and  it  is  her  Roman 
Catholic  and  Protestant  heredity  that  are  at  war; 
one  led  by  John,  the  other  by  the  Mother;  but 
Protestantism  is  too  free  for  her,  and  I  think  that 
it  would  have  been  happier  to  leave  her  a  little 
nun  in  her  beloved  Convent." 

Claude  threw  away  his  cigar  and  clasped  his 
hands  behind  his  head.  "  What  an  awful  lack  of 
principle  and  conviction  your  words  show  !  "  he 
said.  "  John  would  preach  you  a  sermon  on  the 
wickedness  of  leaving  a  person  in  error  in  order 
to  leave  him  in  peace.  You  are  very  clever,"  lie 
went  on,  "  and  read  your  fellows  easily ;  but  in 
reading  other  women  you  leave  out  the  greatest 
factor  in  their  lives  ;  the  factor  that  can  lead 
them  aside  from  duty,  faith,  principle — every 
thing  ;  this  greatest  factor  is-  love,  and  you 
leave  it  out  because  it  has  had  no  play  in  your 


1 82  JOHN  PA  GET. 

life,  my  dear.  Once  win  Beatrice's  love,  and  she 
would  die  for  one." 

"I  knew  her  father,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said; 
"he  would  die  for  a  friend,  but  he  would  not  so 
much  as  entertain  a  wrong  thought ;  no,  not  if 
it  would  save  the  life  of  the  creature  he  loved 
best  on  earth." 

"And  you  think  Beatrice  like  him?  Maybe, 
but  with  this  difference  ;  she  is  a  woman,  and  love 
to  a  man  and  to  a  woman  is  as  different  as  black 
and  white.  This  is  where  you  fail  to  make  allow 
ances  for  your  own  sex.  You  are  reasonable, 
logical,  magnanimous — the  only  magnanimous 
woman  I  have  never  known." 

"Thanks." 

"  But  all  these  qualities,"  Claude  went  on, 
"limit  your  understanding  of  your  own  sex. 
They  do  not  limit  your  criticism,  mind  you,  but 
they  do  limit  your  sympathy." 

"  Only  for  women  who  lack  balance." 

Claude  laughed.  "  I  rather  think  that  takes  in 
the  whole  sex,"  he  said.  "  I  grant  you  that  a 
man  always  wants  his  wife  to  be  reasonable  and 
balanced,  but,  when  he  is  in  love,  he  wants  quite 
another  creature  to  that.  The  old  pattern  for 
women — the  vine  clinging  to  the  oak — seems  to 
be  going  out  of  fashion,  but  it  is  not  in  reality. 
It  is  the  light  weights  who  get  married,  or  the 
women  who  for  the  time  being  pretend  to  be  light 
weights.  The  women  who  love  dress  and  luxury, 
who  seem  to  have  wistful  eyes  and  appealing  ways, 


JOHN  PA  GET.  183 

these  win  in  the  world  ;  while  the  women  who 
spend  themselves  on  good  works — on  the  higher 
education — who  go  in  for  dress  reform,  and  com 
mon  sense,  and  spring-heels,  and  metaphysics, 
they — well,"  drawing  a  long  breath,  "  they  are 
allowed  to  spend  their  time  that  way." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  laughed. 

"  One  wants  the  woman  one  is  in  love  with," 
Claude  went  on,  "  to  be " 

"  A  fool  for  the  time  being,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
struck  in,  "  but  to  recover  her  senses  later  on  ;  you 
want  her  to  revolve  around  you,  to  think  your 
thoughts,  believe  in  your  vagaries,  kneel  down 
before  your  selfishness,  and  be  a  door-mat  to  your 
digestion." 

"  Exactly  !  "  Claude  answered.  "  You  put  it 
beautifully ;  that  '  door-mat  to  the  digestion  '  is 
really  fine,  and  that  belief  in  one's  vagaries  is 
good  too.  A  man  can  meet  plenty  of  clever 
women  in  society — the  spring-heeled,  high  think 
ers,  for  instance  ;  but  at  home  he  wants  a  wife  on 
whom  he  can  rest  his  mind,  or  a  wife  who  is  clever 
enough  to  be  everything  at  once,  a  wife  like — 
he  paused. 

"  Whom  ?  "  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  asked  quickly. 

"  Marjorie,"  Claude  answered.  "  She  would  make 
an  ideal  wife:  she  could  play  the  fool,  being  sen 
sible  all  the  while;  she  could  make  one  thoroughly 
comfortable,  and  would  always  take  life  from  the 
calm,  high  ground  of  expediency." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  looked  at  him  gravely.     "  I 


1 84  JOHN  FACET. 

have  often  thought  that  you  and  Marjorie  were 
made  for  each  other,"  she  said  ;  "  she  knows  the 
world  and  you,  thoroughly;  she  is  even-tempered 
and  generous;  she  has  her  vagaries  under  perfect 
control,  and  has  a  clear  appreciation  of  yours; 
she  is  what  you  call  'clubable ; '  she  would  allow 
your  life  to  flow  always  as  peacefully  as  it  does 
now." 

"  It  is  all  true,"  Claude  said,  then  was  silent, 
looking  into  the  fire. 

"  She  has  money,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  went  on, 
"and  a  fine  constitution " 

Claude  sprang  up.  "  She  may  have  it  all — 
all — all !  "  he  said,  bringing  his  fist  down  on  the 
table  with  a  heavy  thud,  "  but  I  love  Beatrice — 
unreasonable  —  delicate  —  prejudiced — illogical — 
conscience-ridden — it  does  not  matter;  I  love  her 
with  that  love  you  do  not  understand — love  her, 
if  that  love  leads  me  into  a  seven-times-heated 
furnace !  Good-night !  Call  me  fool  if  you 
like  ! "  and  he  left  the  room,  followed  by  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster's  light  laugh. 

The  love  she  did  not  understand  !  and  she  put 
her  hands  over  her  face. 


XIII. 

"  Young  Love  lies  dreaming  ; 
But  who  shall  tell  the  dream  ? 

He  sees  the  beauty 
Sun  hath  not  looked  upon, 
And  tastes  the  fountain 
Unutterably  deep." 

next  morning  Beatrice  missed  the  rose 
1  that  every  day,  since  the  opening  of  the 
conservatory,  she  had  found  beside  her  plate.  It 
had  become  a  habit  to  fasten  this  rose  in  her 
dress,  and  she  looked  for  it  almost  unconsciously. 
No  one  seemed  to  observe  her  after  the  first 
greetings,  and  Claude  and  John  went  on  with 
their  talk  as  if  no  interruption  had  occurred. 

"Grant  to  humanity  all  it  wants,"  Claude  was 
saying,  "let  all  be  clothed — fed — all  with  leisure, 
and  what  would  be  the  point  of  life  ?  We  should 
return  to  the  condition  of  brutes,  and  vegetate. 
I  consider  the  inequalities  of  life,  with  all  their 
attendant  turmoil  and  confusion,  as  boons  to  the 
human  race.  I  consider  it  a  great  good  that 
charity  has  come  down  from  its  high  moral  plane 
to  be  called  a  science.  Once  let  humanity  agree 
that  it  is  a  science,  and  there  will  be  no  end  to 
the  refinements  it  will  undergo — to  the  misery  it 

185 


1 86  JOHN  PA  GET. 

will  not  touch — to  the  strife  it  will  arouse.  It 
will  look  on  itself  as  the  Science  of  Humanity — 
the  science  that  is  to  take  the  place  of  theology, 
and  will  serve  as  an  exciting  stimulus  and  prob 
lem  to  several  generations." 

"  From  your  standpoint,"  John  answered,  "  I 
confess  that  the  whole  thing  does  look  rather 
useless.  I  cannot  understand  how  you  live." 

Claude  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "As  to  that," 
he  said,  "life  holds  many  things  to  be  enjoyed, 
and  there  are  interesting  experiments  and  dis 
coveries  yet  to  be  made,  and  many  problems  yet 
to  be  hammered  at.  I  was  only  expressing  my 
unwillingness  to  have  the  socialistic  millennium 
come  in  my  day.  I  was  in  fear  that  the  time-old 
fact  that  'men  must  work,  and  women  must 
weep'  would  become  extinct.  Weeping  and 
working  make  a  variety — for  the  observer." 

"As  much  as  you  seem  to  appreciate  both," 
John  said,  "you  do  not  seem  to  have  done  either." 

"  Indeed,  not,  and  if  I  keep  my  senses  I  never 
will.  My  theory  is  that  everybody's  duty  is  to 
be  happy,  and,  as  far  as  it  is  consistent  with  his 
own  welfare,  to  make  others  happy.  The  per 
fect  man  will  find  his  happiness  in  the  happiness 
which  he  produces.  I  know  what  you  would 
say,"  holding  up  his  hand  to  John;  "'  he  that 
loseth  his  life' — I  know  it  is  the  best  we  can  do ; 
still,  there  is  another  side.  Suppose  every  man 
should  do  nothing  but  devote  himself  to  his 
neighbor — what  an  awful  bore  it  would  be  to  the 


JOHN  PA  GET.  187 

neighbor.  Even  the  little  I  have  seen  of  modern 
scientific  charity  has  shown  me  how  the  poor  are 
harried  by  their  would-be  helpers.  Many  are 
happier  when  they  are  dirty,  and  enjoy  the  ex 
citement  of  stealing  a  meal." 

John  laughed.  "  A  thousand  years  ago,"  he 
said,  "our  ancestors  enjoyed  raiding  on  their 
neighbors,  but  it  would  be  no  pleasure  to  you  to 
steal  Mrs.  Slater's  best  silver  teapot!  Just  this 
difference,  we  hope  to  make  in  the  descendant  of 
the  present  thief.  Restrain  him — force  his  chil 
dren  into  a  purer  environment,  his  grandchildren 
will  be  purer,  and  in  a  thousand  years  they  may 
even  blossom  into  a  Claude  Van  Kuyster  !  " 

"Noble  ambition!"  Claude  cried.  "I  will 
put  on  my  dress  suit  and  visit  the  police  stations 
— I  will  say  '  my  brothers,  cease  from  your  evil 
ways,  and  in  a  thousand  years  you  may  be  as  I 
am  ! '  Do  you  think  they  would  cease?" 

"No,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  answered  ;  "it  would 
be  another  case  of  pearls  and  swine.  Show  them 
some  stoker  who  has  made  millions  in  oil,  and 
is  in  congress — wears  diamonds  and  broadcloth, 
and  doubtful  linen — he  would  seem  the  highest 
to  them." 

"  My  dear  mother,  you  are  charming !  I  am 
pearls,  Beatrice  ;  I  must  be  handled  gently  and 
dusted  with  a  rose-leaf." 

"  I  have  no  rose-leaf  this  morning,"  Beatrice 
answered. 

"  Do  you  want  one  ?  "  Claude  asked  so  quickly 


1 88  JOHN  FACET. 

that  it  was  revealed  to  Beatrice  that  the  flower 
had  been  banished  purposely. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  you  do  not  look  dusty 
now." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  laughed  ;  John  looked  from 
one  to  the  other,  not  understanding  the  situation, 
and  Claude  explained.  "  The  flowers  depress 
Beatrice,  and  I  have  had  them  banished  ;  but  she 
can  have  them  again  whenever  she  wants  them." 

"Of  course  she  wants  them  restored  immedi 
ately,  do  you  not,  Beatrice  ?  "  John  asked  quickly- 

"  Of  course.  I  begged  Claude  not  to  shut  the 
conservatory." 

"  Where  do  you  go  to-day,  John  ?  "  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  interrupted. 

"  I  am  going  on  a  tour  of  investigation.  I 
shall  cover  my  clericals  with  an  ulster,  and  strive 
to  see  the  real  thing.  I  wonder  if  Claude  will 
go  with  me.  Will  you  ?  " 

"Slumming?  My  dear  Jack,  impossible! 
Think  of  how  it  would  unfit  me  for  living  up  to 
the  duty  of  being  serenely  happy?  At  best  I 
could  only  go  in  a  close  carriage  with  all  the 
glasses  up,  and  all  the  curtains  down,  and  lots  of 
cologne.  Any  other  method  would  wreck  me!" 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  "  and  John  looked  puz 
zled. 

"  Of  course  I  am.  I  do  not  believe  in  slum 
ming.  I  will  build  things,  and  support  schemes ; 
but  to  investigate  the  private  residences  of '  round 
ers  '  and  barrel-pickers  would  seem  to  me  indeli- 


JOHN  FACET.  189 

cate.  You  are  different,  it  is  a  part  of  your  pro 
fession." 

"  I  will  not  be  at  home  to  lunch,  Aunt  Claudia," 
John  said,  and  turned  away.  Then  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  followed  Claude  into  the  study,  and 
Beatrice  went  up  to  what  might  be  called  her 
schoolroom. 

It  was  a  back  room,  cheerfully  furnished  and 
bright  with  light  from  two  large  windows.  The 
outlook  was  not  bad,  for,  it  being  a  rich  neighbor 
hood,  the  little  courtyards  were  models  of  neat 
ness.  One  neighbor,  whose  lowest  story  pro 
jected  back  some  twenty  feet,  had  railed  in  the 
roof,  and  every  day  two  children  and  two  dogs 
were  turned  out  there  to  play.  It  seemed  piti 
ful  to  Beatrice,  and  yet  they  looked  healthy  and 
happy.  The  children  were  in  their  "  pen " 
this  morning,  running  about  with  the  dogs,  and 
screaming  with  laughter.  What  would  they  think, 
Beatrice  mused,  if  they  could  be  turned  out  into 
the  Convent  garden  !  Claude  always  spoke  of  her 
youth  as  an  imprisonment,  yet  how  much  freer 
than  that  of  these  children.  The  children  had 
brought  out  their  dolls  now,  numbers  of  them,  and 
were  busy  seating  them  on  the  stone  coping  with 
their  backs  to  the  iron  railing  ;  once  more  the 
window  was  pushed  open,  and  the  maid  put 
out  two  doll  carriages,  and  the  children  trun 
dled  their  dolls  one  by  one  round  the  inclos- 
ure.  "  How  stupid  !  "  Beatrice  thought.  "  Poor 
children ! " 


19°  JOHN  PA  GET. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  Claude 
entered. 

"Idling?  "he  said;  "what  will  Miss  Grigsby 
say?"  Beatrice  was  surprised  :  he  had  only  been 
in  her  schoolroom  once,  on  the  day  of  installa 
tion,  and  she  wondered  a  little.  He  came  and 
stood  beside  her. 

"  Those  children,"  she  said,  "  I  am  so  sorry  for 
them.  I  am  wondering  how  long  they  will  play 
in  that  stupid  way.  I  had  only  one  doll,"  she 
went  on ;  "  so  had  Antoinette  and  Marie  ;  droll 
dolls,  Sister  Te"rese  made  them  ;  but  they  had 
beds  of  rose-leaves,  and  swung  in  jasmine  vines." 

"  See  !  "  said  Claude,  "  they  are  changing  their 
play  ;  reproducing  their  own  nurses,"  as  the  little 
girls  began  shaking  and  slapping  the  dolls,  and 
reseating  them  violently  on  the  stone  ledge. 

"  Poor  things,"  Beatrice  answered  ;  "  but  what 
now?" 

The  children  seemed  at  a  loss  for  the  moment, 
then  stood  talking  earnestly. 

"Some  mischief,"  Claude  said,  "see  how  they 
watch.  Ah  !  "  as  the  smallest  girl,  taking  hold  of 
a  doll,  pushed  it  through  the  railings.  "  Little 
villains!  how  they  enjoy  it." 

One  after  another  the  dolls  were  hurled  to  de 
struction  ;  hurriedly,  and  with  furtive  watchings 
of  the  nursery  windows.  But  interruption  came 
from  below.  A  footman  ran  out  in  the  paved 
court  and  remonstrated  ;  this  only  excited  them 
the  more,  for  the  larger  girl  began  to  hurl  them 


JOHN  FACET.  191 

over  the  railing.  Then  up  went  the  windows 
and  the  maids  dashed  out  on  the  culprits,  seizing 
them  and  shaking  them  violently. 

"See!"  said  Beatrice,  "that  is  just  the  way 
they  punished  their  dolls  ;  and  they  have  not  a 
doll  left.  I  wish  I  knew  them." 

"  You  shall,"  Claude  answered.  "We  will 
take  them  to  drive,  and  get  them  a  lot  more  dolls 
to  reward  them  for  their  originality.  I  am  glad 
they  have  had  such  a  good  murderous  time. 
But  how  are  the  lessons  ? "  turning  from  the 
window.  "  I  came  up  to  help  you." 

"  It  is  German  to-day,  and  I  know  so  little  that 
it  is  hard." 

"  Let  me  see  your  task,"  and  Claude  drew  a 
chair  to  the  table. 

"  A  little  poem  which  I  have  memorized," 
finding  a  place  in  her  book.  "  I  have  picked  out 
all  the  words  of  it,  still  I  cannot  express  it  in 
English.  I  think  the  person  who  wrote  it  must 
have  been  unhappy.  It  is  about  a  lonely  fir 
tree  shut  up  in  snow  and  ice,  that  dreams  of  a 
lonely  palm  tree  burning  up  in  the  desert  sands. 
It  makes  me  feel  lonely  too." 

"  Heine,"  Claude  said.  "  Yes,  that  poem 
evades  English.  I  often  think  it,  but  I  think  it 
in  German." 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  and  Beatrice  looked  relieved. 
"  I  thought  it  was  my  stupidity,  I  am  so  often 
stupid.  I  do  not  think  I  understood  you  this 
morning.  You  seemed  to  be  twisting  right  things 


19*  JOHN  PA  GET. 

wrong.  You  said  it  was  a  duty  to  be  happy,  and 
yet,  it  would  be  a  pity  if  people  could  stop 
working  and  weeping,  for  there  would  be  nothing 
left  to  do.  Don't  you  know  that  as  long  as 
people  are  wicked  there  will  be  trouble  and 
Avant  ?" 

"  So  the  Mother  taught  you  that  people  are 
poor  because  they  are  sinful  ?  I  know  some  good 
people  who  are  poor." 

"That  is  because  other  people  are  wicked. 
Besides,  good  people  are  contented,  and  content 
ment  is  wealth." 

"  The  Mother  is  a  logician" — and  Claude  looked 
amused.  "  Then  the  way  to  rectify  the  ills  of  life 
is  to  make  people  good.  Then  what  will  be  left 
us  to  do  ?" 

"  To  grow  better." 

"  I  see.     Good — better — best." 

"Yes.     Best  is  God." 

"  And  when  we  reach  the  region  of  Best  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  startled.  "  Of  course  we  shall 
be  satisfied,"  she  said.  "  Perfectly  satisfied." 

"  And  if  you  loved  one  who  had  different  ideas 
of  right  from  yours,"  Claude  went  on,  "  what 
would  you  do  ?" 

"  I  would  try  to  persuade  him  to  my  views. 
If  I  could  not,  I  would  go  away  and  leave  him." 

"  But  suppose  he  convinced  you  that  his  way 
was  best?" 

Beatrice  was  silent,  looking  out  of  the  window. 
"  Something  always  tells  us  '  do  this,'  or  '  do 


JOHN  PA  GET.  193 

that,'  "  she  said  at  last,  turning  her  face  to  his, 
"and  if  we  obey  we  will  be  right.  And  if  you 
tried  to  persuade  me  against  that,"  she  went  on, 
innocently  transferring  his  abstract  proposition 
of  "someone  she  loved  "  to  himself,  "  I  would  go 
away  and  leave  you." 

"  Leave  me  to  grow  worse  and  worse?" 

"You  could  come  with  me  and  be  better." 

"  But  if  I  were  so — what  shall  I  say — so " 

"  Obstinate." 

Claude  laughed.  "  So  obstinate,  then,  as  not 
to  follow,  would  you  still  leave  me  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  If  you  loved  me — loved  me  better  than  John 
or  the  mother?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  you  would  be  a  hard-hearted  little 
monster  !  " 

"  Still,  I  would  have  to  go,  for  you  are  so 
clever  that  you  would  make  me  agree  with  you  ; 
so  I  would  go." 

"  Might  I  not  be  '  righter  '  than  John  or  the 
mother?  Am  I  not  as  well  educated,  have  I  not 
as  much  sense,  have  I  not  seen  more  of  the 
world  ?  Why  may  not  I  be  right  and  they 
wrong?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  laugh  at  everything," 
Beatrice  answered.  "  Nothing  seems  important ; 
you  go  by  what  is  pleasant,  and  one  thing  seems 
as  right  as  another.  But  John  believes  things. 
His  eyes  light  up,  and  he  looks  strong  and  earnest 


194  JOHN  PAGET. 

to  go  out  and  face  the  world  and  die  like  the 
saints  and  martyrs!"  her  own  dreamy  eyes 
catching  fire  as  she  spoke. 

"And  I,"  Claude  said,  while  the  color  crept  up 
his  face — "  I  am  like  the  Roman  youths  who 
watched  the  bloody  shows  and  turned  a  thumb 
down  when  the  victim  was  to  die  ?  You  think  life 
is  a  show  to  me,  and  that  I  could  turn  the  wild 
beasts  of  Poverty  and  Sin  out  on  helpless  human 
ity — and  I  could  laugh,  and  be  almost  too  lazy  to 
turn  my  thumb  down.  Is  it  so?" 

He  paused,  but  the  girl,  drawing  idly,  did  not 
look  up. 

"And  you  would  have  me  spring  down  into  the 
arena  like  the  young  monk  and  be  torn  to 
pieces?  " 

"  But  he  stopped  the  awful  shows,  St.  Telem- 
achus  did,"  she  answered  eagerly.  "  He  was 
grand ! " 

"The  wrong  only  changed  its  form,"  Claude 
went  on.  "The  brute  in  humanity  had  to  come 
out,  and  Christian  persecutions  took  the  place  of 
the  games.  I  think  it  had  been  better  to  let  the 
brutality  of  the  '  elect '  come  out  in  shows.  But 
why  not  have  life  bright  and  happy,  why  insist 
upon  being  tragic  and  solemn — and  why  need  I 
sit  here  and  preach  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  be  gay  and  happy,"  Beatrice 
said,  "  but  we  ought  to  live  to  be  good  and  to 
grow  better." 

"  And  I  do  not  ask  you  to  do  anything  else," 


JOHN  PA  GET.  195 

Claude  answered  gently,  putting  his  hand  on  hers 
to  stop  her  idle  drawing.  "You  have  been 
through  a  great  deal  lately  that  is  trying,  and  I 
only  want  to  turn  your  mind  away  from  sad  things. 
I  am  not  like  John  and  never  can  be,  any  more 
than  a  butterfly  can  be  like  a  lion  ;  and  the  butter 
fly  cannot  help  brushing  the  flowers  lightly  with 
its  wings — cannot  help  enjoying  the  sunshine  and 
the  sweet  air.  The  butterfly  could  not  crush  the 
flowers  as  the  lion  can,  even  if  it  wanted  to — crush 
them  down  to  death  as  he  makes  his  way  into  the 
dark  jungles  of  life.  And  the  butterfly  cannot 
help  your  seeming  a  flower  to  be  cared  for  tenderly 
— kept  in  the  full  sunshine  and  sheltered  from  the 
storm,  and  even  from  the  lion's  paw.  The  butter 
fly  will  do  his  best  to  keep  the  flower  from  the 
lion,  but  if  the  flower  insists  on  coming  to  destruc 
tion  in  the  pathway  of  the  lion — the  butterfly  can 
only  suffer.  Isn't  that  a  nice  little  parable?" 

Beatrice^  laughed.  "  You  are  so  clever,"  she 
said.  "  But  it  seems  so  useless  to  be  only  a 
flower." 

"  Did  you  think  all  these  dismal  thoughts 
when  you  used  to  watch  the  jackdaws  stealing 
figs  ?  " 

"  No,"  drawing  her  hand  from  under  his  in 
order  to  turn  about  curiously  his  cuff-button  that 
struck  her  fancy.  "  No,  I  used  not  to  think  any 
thing  in  those  days.  I  did  not  know  how  to  think 
until  father  grew  ill,  and  I  used  to  fan  him  and 
listen  while  he  talked  to  John.  And  after  Aunt 


I96  JOHN  PA  GET. 

Claudia  came,  I  stopped  thinking  again  until  you 
and  John  began  to  discuss  things." 

"And  do  you  like  to  think?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  lifting  her  face  to  look  out 
of  the  window,  and  resting  her  hand  on  Claude's. 
"  I  do  not  really  know." 

Claude  rose  quickly,  "/know,"  he  said,  putting 
his  hands  into  his  pockets.  "  I  know  that  you 
were  meant  to  be  a  flower  ;  that  your  mission  in 
life  is  to  make  people  happy,  and  you  must  fulfill 
it.  It  seems  to  me  that  this  is  a  high  mission, 
and  whenever  you  consent  to  be  a  flower  and  be 
gin  the  serious  work  of  making  things  bright  and 
beautiful  for  me  and  John,  we  will  tune  the  gui 
tar  and  open  the  conservatory."  And  nodding 
gayly,  he  left  the  room. 


XIV. 

' '  Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth  onward  fast, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  us  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 
Let  us  alone.     What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ?  " 

MARJORIE  came  to  dinner  that  day,  sending 
a  note  beforehand  to  say  that  she  wanted  to 
escape  a  bore.  "  I  am  fleeing  a  philanthropic 
terror,"  she  said  as  they  took  their  seats  at  table. 
"  I  can  never  bring  myself  to  believe  in  them 
thoroughly,  because  I  have  the  misfortune  to  be 
a  born  skeptic.  I  am  harmless,"  smiling  at  Bea 
trice,  who  looked  startled,  "  I  only  mean  that  I 
have  the  skeptical  temperament.  My  Holy  GrailH 
has  been  the  '  ding  an  sick,'  which  I  translate 
Reality,  with  a  very  big  R."  — J 

"  And  you  do  not  find  it  ?  " 

"  Not  so  far.  I  have  '  carved  the  casques  of 
men  '  only  to  find  them  empty,  and  I  have  '  thrust 
sure'  at  windmills  until  that  now  I  am  tempted 
to  pitch  my  tent  in  the  desert  of  Agnosticism  and 
sink  into  Nirvana." 

"  Marjie,  Marjie,  what  ails  you  !  " 


198  JOHN  PAGET. 

"  Mr.  Paget  inspires  me.  He  turns  me  into  an 
Ancient  Mariner,  and  makes  me  confess  my  sins. 
He  is  a  glimpse  of  reality." 

"  My  dear  Jack,"  Claude  said,  "  you  had  better 
escape  at  once.  Think  of  being  called  '  ding  an 
sick '  and  idealized  into  a  kind  of  Holy  Grail. 
What  an  awful  run  you'll  have  for  it." 

"  I  have  been  after  the  '  ding  an  sick  '  myself," 
John  answered. 

"  Yes,  by  the  way,  your  slumming?  " 

Waters  appeared  with  a  card  on  his  waiter. 
"  The  gentleman  says  he  will  wait." 

"  Why,  it  is  Martin  Kinsey  !  " 

Marjorie    sank   back.      "  It  is  from  him  I  me  / 
hiding,"  she  whispered. 

"  His  sister  would  faint  at  the  thought  of  his 
rushing  in  on  us  at  this  hour,"  Claude  said. 
"And  I  will  bring  him  in,  mother;  we  will  be 
here  for  ages  yet." 

"So  glad  to  see  you,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said, 
shaking  hands  with  the  newcomer,  "  so  nice  of 
you  to  be  so  sociable." 

"Thanks!  You  are  awfully  kind.  I  have  so 
little  time,  and  hearing  Miss  Van  Kuyster  was 
here,  I  was  glad  to  catch  you  together." 

"  And  I  am  glad  that  you  should  meet  my 
brother  Mr.  Paget,"  Claude  said.  "  He  is  a  slum- 
mer,  too." 

"  Indeed !  "  adjusting  his  eye-glasses  and  fix 
ing  his  eager  eyes  on  John,  while  his  words 
tripped  over  each  other  with  nervous  quick- 


JOHN  FACET.  199 

ness.      "  You    are    interested    in   charities,    Mr. 
Paget  ?  " 

"  I  am  in  orders." 

"  Quite  so — quite  so  !  I  am  not  in  orders,  not 
at  all  ;  but  all  that  sort  of  thing  is  very  near  to 
me.  But  the  clergy  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing  ; 
they  ought  to." 

"  And  they  do,"  John  said  ;  "  I  have  been  look 
ing  into  the  work  to-day.     In  the  provinces  we  \ 
read  a  great  deal  about  the  degraded  poor  in  the  \ 
cities,  and  the  little  done  for  them." 

"  Quite  so,  quite  naturally  so  ! "  Mr.  Kinsey 
interrupted  eagerly,  "  quite  naturally  so,  and  you 
saw  it  to-day." 

"  From  my  cursory  view,  I  almost  think  that 
too  much  is  done  in  the  matter  of  amelioration." 

"  Bravo!  "  cried  Claude. 

"You  astonish  me!"  And  Mr.  Kinsey  laid 
down  his  knife  and  fork. 

"  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  Kinsey,  I  have  looked 
into  this  thing  myself,"  Claude  said,  "  and  was 
saying,  not  long  ago,  that  it  is  fortunate  that 
charity  is  leaving  the  region  of  the  heart,  and 
going  to  the  head — is  become  a  science." 

"  But  I  have  gone  into  these  things  very  care 
fully,"  Kinsey  said.  "  I  belong  to  a  number  of 
societies — the  Audubon,  and  the  Cruelty  to  Ani 
mals — and  I  am  on  several  committees  on  lunatic 
asylums  and  station  houses  and  many  other 
things;  and  I  assure  you  that  not  half  enough  is 
done." 


200  JOHN  FACET. 

"Grant  all  that,"  John  answered.  "I  meant 
that  to  ameliorate  is  to  prevent  the  eradicating 
that  ought  to  take  place." 

"  I  have  a  cousin,"  Claude  said,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eyes,  while  the  color  crept  up  Beatrice's 
face,  "  who  declares  that  the  only  cure  for  pov 
erty  and  suffering  is  to  make  people  good." 

"And  your  cousin  is  quite  right,  whoever  your 
cousin  may  be,"  John  answered  quickly.  "  A 
man,  a  gentleman,  who  lives  down  in  those  awful 
haunts,  said  to  me  to-day  that  the  dishonesty  of 
property  holders  and  builders  made  the  slums.  I 
asked  him  why  he  did  not  '  stump  '  the  country 
against  these  people  ;  he  answered  that  to  do  that 
would  be  to  '  stump  '  the  country  against  its  whole 
corporate  self.  That  the  whole  nation  would 
have  first  to  be  lifted  into  a  cleaner  moral  atmos 
phere.  That  as  long  as  all  offices  could  be 
bought  and  sold,  money  would  be  the  greatest 
power  in  the  land,  and  builders  and  property 
owners  would  be  allowed  to  manufacture  slums, 
would  be  encouraged  to  manufacture  slums  ;  for 
during  the  elections  the  power  of  the  slums  is 
immense,  and  their  votes  cheap." 

"  His  assertion  is  rather  sweeping,"  Kinsey 
said,  more  nervously  than  ever ;  "  some  property 
owners  are  very  conscientious  indeed,  Mr.  Paget. 
But  you  cannot  know  the  impossibility  of  keeping 
houses  for  such  people  in  repair." 

"  It  is  not  impossible  to  prevent  subletting  and 
overcrowding,"  John  suggested.  "  A  man  who 


JOHN  PA  GET.  201 

owns  property  there  ought  to  make  it  his  life's 
work." 

"  Mr.  Kinsey  does  a  quantity  of  that  sort  of 
work,"  Margie  said* 

"  Ah,  thank  you,  Miss  Van  Kuyster,  but  really 
my  work  is  all  for  helpless  creatures — birds  and 
beasts  and  lunatics  and  prisoners." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  John,  "that  it  would  be 
a  'saving  of  time  and  money  to  go  to  work  and 
destroy  some  of  the  causes  of  lunacy  and  vice. 
Wipe  out  the  places  where  your  lunatics  and 
prisoners  are  manufactured.  The  destruction  of 
your  tenements  would  lessen  your  societies  im 
mensely." 

"Is  not  that  a  rather  large  proposition?" 
Claude  asked.  "  And  as  your  friend  says,  it  can 
not  be,  as  long  as  the  city  government,  and  the 
State  government,  and  the  national  government 
are  bought  and  sold.  The  only  way  would  be 
the  individual  reform  of  landlords." 

"  Exactly." 

"  You  will  have  to  begin  with  us.  then,"  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  said,  laughing.  "The  Van  Kuys- 
ters  own  a  great  deal  of  that  sort  of  property.  I 
used  sometimes  to  write  for  Mr.  Van  Kuyster, 
and  I  know  what  those  tenement  people  endure. 
They  are  slaves  to  high  rents"  and  '  sweater's 
wages.'  ' 

"You  have  gone  into  the  subject?"  John 
asked. 

"Yes,  and  have  let  it  be.     I  remembered  how 


202  JOHN  PA  GET. 

that  in  the  South,  when  one  master  would  free 
his  slaves — some  did  it — it  made  all  conditions 
worse  ;  made  slaves  discontented,  and,  as  a  con 
sequence,  masters  severe.  A  solitary  slum  icono 
clast  would  have  the  same  effect." 

"  Quite  so,"  Martin  Kinsey  agreed  quickly. 
"  Turn  the  poor  things  out,  and  they  could  only 
crowd  into  the  next  tenement.  More  crowding, 
you  see  ;  and  to  stop  their  taking  boarders  would 
be  to  stop  a  source  of  income." 

"  Shoot  the  sweaters,"  John  suggested  quietly, 
"  and  lower  the  rents  ;  then  they  would  not  need 
such  large  incomes." 

"  To  lower  rents  is  simply  to  insure  over 
crowding,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  answered.  "  It 
must  be  a  concerted  movement." 

"And  as  landlords  will  not  concert,  and  the 
state  cannot  destroy  under  the  existing  system," 
Marjorie  summed  up,  "  the  only  thing  left  to  do 
is  to  join  Mr.  Kinsey 's  societies  to  soothe  the 
lunatic,  cheer  the  prisoner,  and  enjoy  the  punish 
ment  of  keepers." 

"  It  seems  an  awful  conclusion,"  John  said 
slowly. 

"  My  dear  Jack,"  and  Claude  held  his  wine 
glass  up  to  the  light,  "  you  take  things  too  des 
perately  ;  you  turn  everything  into  a  life-and- 
death  problem.  You,  and  all  other  philanthro 
pists  go  on  the  supposition  that  these  creatures 
and  other  beasts  and  birds  suffer  as  we  would 
suffer  under  like  conditions.  They  do  not  be- 


JOff.V  PA  GET.  203 

cause  they  cannot.  For  generations  I,  for  in 
stance,  have  lived  a  satin-lined  life ;  my  whole 
mind  and  body  are  adjusted  to  a  satin-lined  life. 
A  loosely  rolled  umbrella  is  a  pain — dust,  a  great 
trouble.  I  cannot  even  drive  through  lower  New 
York  to  the  docks  without  many  shocks  to  my 
whole  nervous  system.  A  railway  station  is  an 
abomination.  I  send  my  man  ahead  to  buy  tick 
ets  and  bestow  my  luggage ;  I  rush  through  the 
station  and  take  my  seat  with  my  back,  as  far  as 
possible,  to  my  fellow-travelers.  You  cannot 
persuade  me  that  a  low-caste  piece  of  humanity, 
or  a  horse,  suffers  all  these  delicate  agonies,  or 
requires  this  same  satin-lined  environment  ?  My 
chief  grievance  is  that  I  do  not  own  enough 
tenements  to  possess  myself  of  a  private 
car." 

"  Do  you  really  own  tenements  ?  "  John  asked. 

"  No,  not  really.  The  governor  settled  the 
tenement  property  on  mother ;  mine  is  in  shops 
and  uptown  houses." 

"  My  father  left  me  slaves ;  my  husband  left 
me  tenements,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said. 

"  I  would  not  mind  either,"  Marjorie  answered. 
"  Your  slaves  were  freed.  Probably  the  govern 
ment,  when  sufficiently  centralized,  will  pulldown 
your  tenements.  Meanwhile,  take  time  by  the 
forelock,  and  invest  the  proceeds  in  something 
else.  That  is  what  you  should  have  done  in  the 
case  of  the  darkies." 

"  My  husband    did  sell  my  slaves,"   and   Mrs. 


204  JOHN  PA  GET. 

Van  Kuyster  smiled  ;  "  the  price  was  invested  in 
uptown  tenements." 

"  Hard  luck  for  a  conscientious  woman  with 
cultivated  tastes  and  '  flesh-pot  blood,' "  Claude 
said,  laughing.  "  I  am  almost  as  sorry  for  you  as 
for  Kinsey,  here  ;  he  is  a  born  philanthropist,  and 
yet  owns  tenements." 

"  My  grandfather  owned  slaves  too,"  Kinsey 
said  hesitatingly. 

"A  Southern  man  ?" 

"No;  oh,  no!     Massachusetts." 

"So?  then  you  burnt  witches  also,"  and  Mar- 
jorie  laughed.  "  You  have  more  than  your  share 
of  heredity,  I  think  ;  a  witch-burner,  a  slave-owner, 
and  a  tenement  landlord ;  dreadful  !  " 

Kinsey  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  "  It  is  really 
very  bad,"  he  said  earnestly.  "  Our  ancestors 
were  queer." 

"  Very  queer,  to  state  it  gently;  "  and  Marjorie 
followed  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  and  Beatrice  from 
the  dining  room. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  Martin  Kin 
sey  ?  "  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  asked,  as  she  and  Marjorie 
stood  near  the  drawing  room  fire,  Beatrice  having 
gone  into  the  study. 

"Nothing,"  Marjorie  answered. 

"I  was  sorry  for  him  during  the  tenement  dis 
cussion,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  went  on, "  and  amused 
when  John  asked  if  I  had  studied  the  subject. 
Mr.  Van  Kuyster  used  to  collect  the  statistics 
for  my  benefit,  and  focus  them  and  the  ills  of  sla- 


JOHN  PA  GET.  205 

very  for  me  ;  then  left  the  property  so  that  I  can 
not  possibly  sell  it." 

"Then  you     are    not    responsible,"    Marjorie 
said  gently. 

Mrs.  Van   Kuyster  looked  amused. 

"  You  are  sorry  for  me  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Do  you 
suppose  I  am  sensitive  still?  It  would  not  be 
possible.  I  have  sounded  so  many  depths  that 
I  have  reached  the  point  where  life  seems  a  farce. 
I  assure  you  that  I  am  very  comfortable.  My  \ 
teeth  are  sound,  my  digestion  good,  and  I  sleep 
like  a  top.  What  more  can  anyone  ask  ?  " 


XV. 

"  What  of  the  end,  Pandora  ?    Was  it  thine, 
The  deed  that  set  the  fiery  pinions  free  ? 

What  of  the  end  ?     These  beat  their  wings  at  will, 
The  ill-born  things,  the  good  things  turned  to  ill — 

Powers  of  the  impassioned  hours  prohibited. 
Aye,  clench  the  casket  now  !     Whither  they  go 
Thou  mayst  not  dare  to  think  ;  nor  canst  thou  know 

If  Hope,  still  pent  there,  be  alive  or  dead." 

THE  gentlemen  came  in  presently,  and  Claude 
missed  Beatrice.  He  had  to  wait  before 
going  in  search  of  her,  however,  and  during  that 
time  she  appeared.  She  pushed  aside  the  portiere 
and  looked  in  doubtfully,  and  Claude  waited  to  see 
what  she  would  do — to  whom  she  would  come. 

Martin  Kinsey,  seated  near  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster, 
was  talking  rapidly.  John,  leaning  on  the  mantel 
piece,  was  listening  to  Marjorie  ;  Claude  was  stand 
ing  there  too.  At  the  first  movement  of  the 
curtain,  Marjorie  knew  that  Claude's  attention 
was  gone,  and  instantly  became  more  interested 
in  him  than  in  her  own  words.  She  still  talked, 
however,  and  John  still  listened. 

Presently  Beatrice  came  forward,  making  di 
rectly  for  Claude.  Marjorie's  voice  ceased,  and 
John  turned  to  see  the  cause. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  207 

"Are  you  very  busy?  "  Beatrice  asked,  looking 
up  at  Claude. 

"  My  dear  child,  how  can  you  ask  ?  Is  not 
Marjie  talking  ?  Still,  what  is  it  ?  " 

And  Marjorie  thought,  "  How  well  he  does  it!" 
for  she  had  caught  the  flash  of  triumph  in  his 
eyes  when  the  girl  came  to  him. 

"An  English  composition,"  Beatrice  answered. 
"  I  know  that  I  ought  not  to  interrupt  you,  but  I 
cannot  even  begin  it." 

"  And  the  subject  ?  " 

"  Modern  Civilization." 

The  trio  laughed. 

"  How  simple,"  Marjie  said.  "  Suppose  we  write 
it  turn  about  ?  Miss  Grigsby  will  think  that  she 
has  unearthed  a  genius.  Let  us  go  to  the  study." 

"  No,"  Claude  answered.  "That  will  not  help 
Beatrice  in  the  least.  You  stay  here  and  empty 
your  vials  of  conversation  on  -Jack  ;  I  can  reduce 
modern  civilization  to  a  pulp  in  a  few  minutes, 
not  to  speak  of  Miss  Grigsby." 

John  watched  them  go  with  a  look  of  surprise 
in  his  eyes,  and  Marjie  watched  him.  "  Is  he 
beginning  to  understand  ?"  she  wondered.  But 
his  expression  had  not  changed  when  again  he 
spoke  to  her. 

"  How  kind  Claude  is  to  Beatrice,"  he  said. 
"  She  seems  to  turn  to  him  quite  naturally." 

"  Do  you  think  it  hardship  to  be  kind  to  a 
pretty  girl  ?  " 

"  A  composition  is  always  dull  work." 


208  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"Would  you  have  found  it  dull  if  Beatrice  had 
come  to  you  ?  " 

"No;  but  then  I  love  the  child." 

For  a  moment  Marjie  was  speechless,  then  she 
went  on  : 

"Claude  is  very  fond  of  Beatrice  too." 

"  Fond  of  her  ?     He  scarcely  knows  her." 

"  If  Claude  takes  a  fancy,  he  cannot  be  kept 
at  a  distance.  If  he  should  meet  and  like  the 
Angel  Gabriel,  he  would  make  the  angel  his 
friend  in  fifteen  minutes." 

"  What  you  say  is  quite  true,"  John  answered, 
laughing.  "  I  am  glad  he  likes  Beatrice ;  he 
seems  nearer  her  age  than  I  can  feel  myself  to  be. 
I  think  of  her  always  as  a  child,  and  yet,  she  is 
seventeen.  Her  mother  married  at  sixteen." 

"Was  the  mother  as  beautiful  as  Beatrice  ?" 

"  Is  Beatrice  beautiful?  " 

"Are  you  blind?" 

"  When  you  live  with  a  person  always,  you  for 
get  looks." 

"You  should  go  to  Washington  and  Boston  to 
see  the  sights;  a  fortnight  would  do  it  comfort 
ably,  even  with  your  bad  eyes." 

"  We  were  speaking  of  Beatrice." 

"We  were  speaking  of  blindness." 

John  looked  at  her  thoughtfully.  "You  are 
trying  to  tell  me  something,"  he  said  simply, 
"  and  I  am  too  dull  to  see.  I  am  awfully  stupid 
sometimes." 

"  Yes,  you  are,"  promptly.     "  Go  to  Washing- 


JOHN  PA  GET.  209 

ton,  Boston,  and  Philadelphia,  if  you  like  ;  then 
come  back,  and  you  will  be  able  to  take  a  new 
view  of  us.  There  is  nothing  like  absence  for 
teaching  one  the  value  of  things." 

"You  think  I  do  not  value  my  friends 
enough  ?  " 

"In  bulk,  yes;  I  mean  relative  values.  Some 
one  of  us  must  be  more  necessary  to  you  than 
some  other  of  us.  Away,  you  will  be  able  to 
grade  us;  at  present  we  are  in  some  confusion. 
Your  work  stands  first." 

"  As  it  shall  do  always." 

"  Perhaps." 

"  I  will  admit  no  doubt." 

"Grant  work  the  first  place,  then  ;  after  work 
comes  Claude  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  your  aunt?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  Beatrice  and  I  in  the  background. 
Poor  little  Beatrice  !  to  think  of  that  beautiful 
nose  being  broken,  not  to  speak  of  her  heart." 

"  You  go  too  fast  ;  I  did  not  grant  this  last 
proposition.  Beatrice  goes  without  saying." 

"  Ahead  of  your  work  ?  " 

"  I  feel  her  my  most  sacred  duty." 

"A  duty?" 

"  Of  course :  she  has  no  one  in  the  world  but 
me." 

"  Cousin  Claudia  and  Claude." 

"  Oh,  that  is  temporary  !     She  belongs  to  me." 


210  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  Then  you  should  take  charge  of  her  educa 
tion." 

John  looked  at  her  intently,  a  slow  fire  seem 
ing  to  catch  in  his  eyes.  He  moved  away 
abruptly,  upsetting  with  his  elbow  a  little  vase 
that  stood  on  the  mantelpiece.  Marjorie  caught 
it,  with  an  exclamation  that  made  him  face  about 
again. 

"  A  most  valuable  bit  of  porcelain  !  "  she  said. 
"  I  have  saved  it.  I  shall  demand  it  of  cousin — 
mine  by  right  of  salvage." 

"I  shall  add  my  entreaties,"  John  answered, 
"  and  we  will  call  it  the  reward  of  divination." 

"  And  are  you  glad  to  have  eaten  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge  ?" 

"  No ;  you  have  set  my  life  in  battle  array 
against  me.  At  least,  so  it  seems  to  me  now." 
He  paused,  looking  down  into  the  fire.  "  So  it 
is  !  "  raising  his  eyes  to  hers  with  a  pain-stricken 
look  in  them — "  So  it  is  !  " 

In  the  study,  Beatrice  was  working  faithfully; 
somewhat  mystified,  but  going  on  obediently, 
this  being  her  only  hope  of  getting  her  task 
done. 

"  In  the  beginning  there  was  but  one  notion, 
self-preservation — but  one  determining  quality, 
strength,"  Claude  dictated,  walking  up  and  down 
with  his  hands  behind  him  and  a  set  look  on  his 
face  that  seemed  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
work  of  the  moment.  "  The  strongest  were  best 


JOHN  PA  GET.  211 

able  to  survive — to  seize  and  to  keep.  They  in 
spired  in  their  fellows  fear  and  awe  ;  from  this 
they  became  rulers — chiefs  ;  after  death  were 
deified.  These  strong  ones  demanded  a  certain 
behavior  from  their  fellows  :  this  demand  was 
the  beginning  of  law.  The  behavior  was  the 
beginning  of  manners  and  customs." 

Beatrice  looked  up.  "  Is  this  really  true, 
Claude  ?" 

"  Of  course,  dear  ;  does  it  not  seem  perfectly 
simple  and  reasonable?  The  awe  these  chiefs 
inspired  was  the  beginning  of  religion." 

"  But,  God,  Claude  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  think  of  God  ?  " 

"As  my  Father  in  heaven." 

"  Why  do  you  think  of  God  as  a  person,  dear?" 

"The  Mother  said  it  was  a  mystery.  That 
God  said.  '  Let  us  make  man  in  our  own  image,' 
so  we  cannot  think  of  anything  grander  than 
man.  That  is  what  she  taught  us." 

"  So  in  the  beginning  they  deified  man  ?  " 

"The  Mother  said  that  the  Incarnation  lifted 
humanity  up.  From  the  beginning  the  spirit  of 
God  was  in  man — the  breath  of  life — and  only 
man  himself  can  destroy  the  divinity  within  him, 
and  become  a  brute.  You  say  man  was  deified. 
I  do  not  know  just  where  the  wrong  comes  in, 
but  you  seem  to  lower  God." 

"  While  the  Mother  elevated  humanity?  Then 
she  is  a  greater  civilizerthan  I  am.  Now,  slavery 
was  an  instrument  for  taming  barbarous  man. 


212  JOHN  PA  GET. 

The  Zeit-Geist  is  the  great  regulator  of  manners, 
customs,  laws,  and  creeds.  The  Zeit-Geist  is  the 
Time-Spirit,"  he  added,  in  answer  to  a  puzzled 
look  from  Beatrice.  "  It  sweeps  toys  away  from 
children  and  tribes — it  sweeps  trammels  away 
from  men  and  nations.  In  one  age  Might  rules 
— in  another  Right  must  rule.  We  are  in  a  tran 
sition  state;  we  have  neither  Might  nor  Right, 
and  the  world  knows  not  where  to  turn,  for  the 
false  and  the  true  seem  to  be  inextricably  mixed. 
This  mixture  can  scarcely  be  called  civilization, 
but  it  is  modern  without  a  doubt.  Man  is  con 
fused  because  his  mental  self  has  developed  more 
rapidly  than  his  moral  self.  Intellectual  teachers 
have  but  one  cry — '  Advance,  explore  ! '  Ecclesi 
astical  teachers  have  but  one  cry  '  Walk  in  the  old 
paths!'  The  old  paths  have  become  ditches  like 
the  path  of  the  mill-horse  about  the  mill.  The 
wind  of  truth  is  blowing  the  dust  from  the  road 
of  progress  into  the  ditches  of  the  old  path,  and 
the  Zeit-Geist  is  leveling  them  over.  Soon  the 
moral  nature  will  be  set  free  to  progress  ;  then 
Might,  that  is,  Customs  and  Creeds,  will  be  packed 
out  of  sight  into  the  old  path,  and  Right,  because 
it  is  Right,  will  rule  the  world." 

"  Are  the  creeds  wrong?"  looking  up  with  con 
sternation  in  her  eyes. 

"  The  creeds  are  mighty,"  Claude  answered. 
"  See  what  Miss  Grigsby  will  say,"  then  he  sat 
down  beside  her.  Beatrice  read  the  remark 
able  production,  and  Claude,  reading  it  along 


JOHN  PA  GET.  213 

with  her,  showed   her  where    a   word  was   mis 
spelled. 

"  The  Mother  would  be  shocked,  that  of  all 
words  you  should  not  know  ecclesiastical !  " 

"  I  am  mortified,"  Beatrice  said  slowly,  while 
the  blood  stole  up  in  her  face.-  Claude  watched 
the  changing  color  on  the  cheek  so  near  his  eyes 
— a  tide  of  tint,  not  color  ;  up  to  the  blue-veined 
temples — up  under  the  shadow  of  the  drooped 
lashes — down  the  soft  curve  of  the  throat  it  crept. 
His  hand,  that  lay  on  the  back  of  Beatrice's  chair, 
closed  on  the  top  round  with  a  sudden  grip  that 
jarred  her  slightly.  She  looked  up. 

"  I  was  only  joking  about  the  spelling,"  he  said. 
A  simple  speech  to  make  his  voice  so  breathless. 
"  You  have  been  most  carefully  taught — drilled,  ! 
in  fact." 

She  did  not  answer.  Her  eyes  were  fastened 
on  his  wistfully,  questioningly,  like  the  eyes  of  a 
child.  His  expression  puzzled  her.  He  looked 
away,  moving  idly  the  pens  and  pencils  that  lay 
on  the  table.  He  must  not  make  a  fool  of  him 
self  and  terrify  her,  he  must  waken  her  gradually. 
He  took  up  her  hand  that  still  held  a  pen — took 
it  up  quite  carelessly  and  looked  at  it. 

"The  hand  of  a  musician,"  he  said;  "long, 
slender  fingers.  Do  you  believe  in  palmistry?" 

"  Old  Angela  did,"  the  girl  answered,  "  and 
she  would  never  tell  me  what  she  saw  in  mine." 

Claude  turned  her  hand  over,  while  the  pen 
dropped  with  a  little  clatter.  "  A  very  nervous 


214  JOHN  PAGET. 

hand,"  he  said,  "  and  you  have  a  very  hard  time 
introspectively.  You  are  an  idealist — and  a 
mystic — and  an  aesthete,  and  all  the  rest  of  it — 
and — the  life  line  is  neither  deep  nor  long — lucky 
girl !  It  is  all  nonsense,  dear,"  raising  her  hand 
to  his  lips* — •"  You  have  got  a  very  nice  little 
hand,  built  on  purpose  to  make  music,  and  gather 
flowers,  and  pull  open  purse-strings  ;  and  as  far 
as  I  have  the  ordering  of  said  hands,  they  shall 
never  do  anything  else.  What  do  you  think?" 

"  Very  nice,  but  rather  useless." 

"  Think  of  the  good  you  can  do  when  you  pull 
open  the  purses." 

"  I  have  no  purses." 

"  My  dear  child,  all  our  purses  are  yours  !  Be 
sides,"  he  added  mendaciously,  as  he  saw  the 
color  spring  to  the  girl's  face,  "  from  your  mother 
you  have  a  little  surplus  of  your  own.  Have 
you  no  check-book?  John  turned  over  every 
thing  of  yours  to  the  mater  as  your  guardian,  and 
as  I  am  her  business  manager,  I  must  see  to  this. 
You  must  have  a  bill  at  a  book  shop,  a  confec 
tioner's,  a  florist's,  and  anywhere  else  you  like. 
We  will  institute  them  to-morrow;  then  there 
will  be  some  point  to  your  walks  with  your  very 
respectable  woman  Billings." 

"  And  the  tenement  people  they  were  talking 
about  at  dinner,"  Beatrice  went  on,  her  eyes 
shining  ;  "  there  must  be  children  there  ;  might  I 
give  them  things?" 

"Of  course,  dear;  we  will  make  a  pilgrimage 


JOHN  PA  GET.  215 

to  all  the  nurseries,  and  orphanages,  and  chil 
dren's  homes  and  hospitals,  and  have  a  good 
time.  Once  you  are  interested,  you  will  grow 
well  and  strong,  and  not  be  homesick  any  more ; 
then  we  can  open  the  conservatory,  and  tune  the 
guitar." 

"  Do  it  now,  Claude,"  laying  her  hand  on  his 
impulsively.  "  I  am  happy  now — I  am  not 
homesick !  " 

"  I  am  afraid  ;  I  am  an  arrant  coward  about 
people  looking  sad." 

"  Open  it  !  "  rising  and  moving  toward  the 
closed  doors,  "  open  it  now.  Please,  Claude  !" 

Claude  hesitated  a  moment,  then  followed  her. 
"  Will  you  promise  me,"  he  said,  standing  be 
tween  her  and  the  doors,  '!  promise  to  tell  me  if 
it  makes  you  homesick  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Promise  to  hunt  me  up  whenever  you  feel 
blue?" 

"Yes." 

"  Promise  to  come  to  me  for  everything  you 
want  ?". 

"Yes." 

"  To  look  on  me  as  your  Father  Confessor  and 
business  manager  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Promise,  as  you  hope  to  save  your  little 
soul  ?" 

"Yes." 

He  stood  looking  down  on  her  a  moment,  then 


2l6  JOHN  PA  GET. 

reaching  the  key  from  a  bracket  near  at  hand,  he 
opened  the  doors.  A  wave  of  warm,  sweet  air — 
and  a  dim  vision  of  moveless  flowers. 

"  In  a  garden  they  would  be  nodding,"  the  girl 
said.  "  Here  they  stand  still  and  dream  like  the 
pine  tree  that  dreamed  of  the  palm.  Does  every 
thing  dream  and  long,  Claude?"  Then  she 
turned  quickly  away. 

"  Homesick  ?  "  Claude  asked,  stopping  her  with 
a  hand  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Only  a  moment.  Don't  shut  it  up — can't 
you  understand?  I  cannot  explain.  I  call  it 
homesickness  because  I  know  no  better  name ; 
but  I  have  felt  it  at  home  when  the  moon  would 
rise  over  the  water,  and  the  waves  reached  long 
ingly  up  the  land.  I  have  felt  it  because  a 
guitar  was  thrumming  in  the  street — because  the 
mourning  doves  were  cooing  in  the  Convent  gar 
den.  It  seems  to  me  that  these  flowers  must  be 
longing  for  the  flowers  that  are  blooming  and 
blowing  wherever  it  is  warm  and  sweet.  They 
are  all  Southern  flowers.  Don't  you  know  how 
tears  come  into  your  eyes  because  you  are 
happy?" 

"I  will  not  shut  it,"  Claude  said,  and  wondered 
how  much  longer  he  could  keep  up  this  "  broth 
erly  business."  "  You  may  have  your  little  tear 
ful  joys  as  often  as  you  like,"  he  went  on,  "if 
you  will  promise  to  take  your  tonic,  and  to  exer 
cise  faithfully.  Tell  me  what  you  are  thinking 
now  ;  something  unflattering,  I  am  sure," 


JOHN  PA  GET.  217 

"  You  are  a  puzzle ;  you  seem  to  have  hard 
spots  in  you.  I 

"  I  did  not  think  you  would  call  me  lumpy  ! " 

"  Of  course  I  expressed  it  badly,  but  something 
seems  missing  in  you.  You  can  put  a  wall  behind 
your  eyes,  as  it  were,  and  a  slab  over  your  feel 
ings,  and  yet,  you  are  always  reasonable." 

"  It  is  reasonable,  but  unfeeling  to  mix  tonics 
and  tears.  I  agree  with  you  entirely  ;  but  an 
excess  of  feeling  is  unwholesome  and  uncivilized  ; 
it  shows  a  great  lack  of  culture,  and  a  surplus  of 
liver." 

"But you  have  feelings." 

"A  headache  now  and  then,  a  little  fury  for  an 
ill-cut  glove." 

"  I  am  not  so  silly  as  you  think.  More  than 
once  I  have  seen  your  heart  in  your  eyes." 

"  My  heart  in  my  eyes !  My  child,  do  you 
know  how  the  heart  looks  ?  It  is  large,  and 
round,  and  red  !  " 

"  Please  be  in  earnest.  If  you  ridicule  me  like 
this  I  cannot  keep  all  my  promises.  I  cannot 
confess  if  you  laugh  at  me." 

"  You  are  quite  right  ;  ridicule  is  death,  and 
not  for  several  universes  would  I  murder  one  of 
your  little  thoughts  or  fancies.  But  I  should 
like  to  make  you  so  happy  that  you  would  not 
always  see  '  the  tears  in  mortal  things/  but  some 
times  the  smiles." 

"  You  do  make  me  happy,"  looking  up  in  a 
way  that  made  Claude  put  his  hands  behind  him. 


21 8  JOHN  PAGET. 

and  long  for  some  interruption  from  the  outer 
world.  "  You  are  kinder  to  me,  more  thought 
ful  of  me  than  anybody  has  ever  been.  You  are 
constantly  arranging  pleasures  for  me.  It  does 
not  seem  to  me  that  you  can  have  time  to  think 
of  anything  else." 

"  I  do  not." 

"  I  was  afraid  so.  Please  leave  me  alone.  It 
worries  me  to  think  what  a  trouble  I  am.  I 
assure  you  that  I  am  not  accustomed  to  so  much 
spoiling,  and  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  bore.  I  will 
understand  that  you  are  fond  of  me  without  all 
this." 

"  Fond  of  you  ?  " 

She  drew  back,  the  color  leaping  into  her  face. 
"You  are  so  kind  to  me  that  I  thought  you  must 
like  me  a  little." 

Claude  laughed.  "  You  are  quite  right,  I  am 
very  fond  of  you.  I  repeated  your  words  because 
'  fond  '  is  rather  a  stranger  to  my  vocabulary.  I 
like — /  like  awfully.  For  instance,  I  like  you 
awfully.  You  are  '  fond  '  of  things — you  find  things 
'  droll  ' — you  ask  for  a  '  bit.'  It  was  only  the 
phrase  I  was  thinking  of." 

The  door  opened  and  Marjorie  came  in. 

"  I  want  to  go  home,  Claude,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
do  not  want  Martin  Kinsey  to  go  with  me  ;  get 
your  hat  and  coat,  please.  How  is  the  composi 
tion,  Beatrice  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  finished  long  ago  !  " 

"And  what  have  you  been  studying  since?" 


JOHN-  PA  GET.  219 

"  Many  things,"  Claude  answered  : 

"  Why  the  sea  is  boiling  hot, 
And  whether  pigs  have  wings." 

"  '  I  doubt  it,'  said  the  carpenter, 
And  shed  a  bitter  tear," 

Marjorie  quoted. 

"  You  were  ever  a  skeptic,  Marjie  ;  make  your 
farewells,  my  dear,  while  I  fetch  my  hat  and 
coat." 


XVI. 

"  When  the  fight  begins  within  himself, 
A  man's  worth  something.     God  stoops  o'er  his  head, 
Satan  looks  up  between  his  feet — both  tug — 
He's  left,  himself,  i'  the  middle  ;  the  soul  wakes 
And  grows.     Prolong  that  battle  through  his  life  ! 
Never  leave  growing  till  the  life  to  come  !  " 

MARJORIE'S  teaching  had  a  varying  effect  on 
John.  For  a  day  or  two  he  had  put  it  away 
from  him,  but,  the  scales  having  fallen  from  his 
eyes,  he  could  not  help  seeing.  Even  a  retro 
spective  glance  proved  the  truth  of  Marjorie's 
assertion  that  he  was  blind  and  stupid.  He 
laughed,  remembering  it.  He  thought  that  he 
would  have  preferred  hearing  nothing  of  the  mat 
ter  until  it  was  announced.  It  would  be ;  an  un 
sophisticated  child  like  Beatrice  could  not  resist 
a  man  like  Claude ;  and  there  was  no  reason  why 
she  should  resist  him. 

He  was  sitting  alone  in  the  study  with  a  book 
turned  down  on  his  knee  and  a  paper  knife  in  his 
hands.  A  slightly  wrought  silver  thing,  and  he 
bent  it  slowly  back  and  forth — bent  it  double 
while  he  thought. 

It  would  be  a  very  good  marriage  for  Beatrice, 
and  settle  her  beyond  most  of  the  '  chances  and 
changes  '  of  life.  She  would  be  his  little  sister. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  221 

He  twisted  the  paper  knife  round  and  round, 
and  looked  at  it  reproachfully  when  it  fell  apart. 
What  a  fool  he  was !  He  must  go  down  to  the 
shops  and  replace  it  at  once.  Possibly  his  aunt 
might  want  something,  or  Beatrice  ;  he  would  go 
up  and  see.  He  had  not  been  into  Beatrice's 
schoolroom  since  the  first  day. 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  smiled  and  said  she  wanted 
a  gray  gauze  fan,  if  John  would  select  it  for  her 
at  Tiffany's. 

Going  up  the  next  flight,  he  tapped  at  the 
open  door  of  the  schoolroom.  Billings  sat  sewing 
near  the  window,  and  Claude  and  Beatrice  were 
at  the  table  with  their  heads  together  over  a 
book.  They  looked  up  in  much  surprise. 

"  Why,  where  are  the  slums?  "  Claude  asked. 

"  I  cannot  go  every  day,  you  know,"  ap 
proaching  the  table.  "  I  have  class  work  at  the 
seminary." 

"  So  you  have." 

"Just  now,  I  am  going  down  to  the  shops,  and 
thought  that  Beatrice  might  want  some  errand 
done." 

"Oh,  thank  you!  " 

"  Don't  you  want  the  coupe  ?  "  Claude  asked. 

"  Thanks,  I  prefer  walking.  Another  com 
position,  Beatrice  ?  did  the  last  win  a  prize?  " 

"Indeed  not;  Miss  Grigsby  was  quite  angry." 

"  Miss  Grigsby  is  not  advanced,"  Claude  said. 
"  I  am  waiting  now  to  have  a  long  and  exhaustive 
discussion  with  her." 


222  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  I  wish  I  might  hear,  but  I  must  go.  I 
am  sorry  I  can  do  nothing  for  you,  Beatrice — 
good-by." 

Why  had  he  been  such  a  fool  as  to  suggest 
doing  errands  for  the  family;  they  had  regarded 
him  quite  as  if  he  had  lost  his  senses.  Was  he 
fool  enough  to  think  that  he  could  enter  the  lists 
with  Claude?  Even  if  he  had  the  skill,  he  had 
no  right.  His  past  life,  that  he  was  hating  more 
and  more  each  moment,  bound  him.  Was 
Claude's  past  any  better?  Manifestly,  this  was 
not  his  affair  ;  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  was  the  girl's 
guardian,  and  all  his  responsibility  in  the  matter 
was  with  himself. 

A  gray  gauze  fan — silver-gray.  He  did  not 
believe  that  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  wanted  it  really; 
she  had  a  queer  look  in  her  eyes  when  she  gave 
him  the  commission,  for  he  had  been  idiotic 
enough  to  tell  her  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  ask 
if  Beatrice  wanted  anything.  It  was  a  perfectly 
new  thing  for  him  to  do,  and  of  course,  if 
Marjorie  could  see  through  things,  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  had  seen,  too  ;  they  had  discussed  it  all, 
probably.  Confound  it !  While  he  was  flapping 
about  like  a  bat ! 

He  selected  a  fan  and  ordered  it  sent  up;  if  she 
did  not  want  it,  she  could  send  it  back.  The 
paper  knife  he  matched  exactly,  and  left  the 
broken  one  to  be  mended.  He  would  keep  the 
mended  one  as  a  reminder  of  his  temporary  in 
sanity.  He  hoped  that  it  was  temporary.  He 


JOHN  PA  GET.  223 

bought  also  a  little  pansy  pin,  with  a  diamond 
dewdrop  in  the  center.  It  would  be  quite  proper 
to  give  it  to  Beatrice;  she  was  his  little  sister. 
And  when  he  reached  home  the  little  brooch  was 
locked  away  in  his  desk. 

He  read  diligently  until  lunch,  and  at  lunch 
declined  to  realize  Claude's  possessive  way  with 
Beatrice;  but  going  out  to  walk  after  lunch,  he 
reflected  on  it.  Of  course  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  saw 
it,  for  it  was  ridiculously  plain.  Beatrice  seemed 
to  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  She  liked  being 
watched  over  and  directed.  She  had  hermother's 
dreamy,  dependent,  ease-loving  nature — weak,  in 
short.  And  how  could  she  help  that,  poor  child? 
Was  he  weak  enough  to  grow  spiteful  to  Beatrice 
and  jealous  of  Claude?  He  had  no  right  to  think 
of  Beatrice  in  any  way. 

And  Elizabeth  ?  Since  Marjorie  had  opened 
his  eyes,  how  continually  she  had  haunted  him. 
Surely  he  had  done  right  in  forsaking  that  old 
life,  so  full  of  evil — a  life  that  he  now  loathed  ! 
Was  his  memory  playing  him  false,  or  had  Eliza 
beth  been  as  strong  as  she  seemed  to  him  now  ? 
Her  father's  degradation  was  a  bitter  thing  to 
her,  yet  how  she  had  stood  by  him,  even  to  the 
extent  of  patiently  enduring  her  stepmother,  who 
was  most  obnoxious  to  her.  And  how  earnestly 
she  had  tried  to  improve  her  half-brothers  into 
something  decent.  What  young  devils  they 
were  !  Of  course,  having  determined  to  take  or 
ders,  he  could  not  herd  with  such  people,  and  as 


224  JOHN  PA  GET. 

they  had  lived  far  from  the  town,  he  had  found 
no  difficulty  in  avoiding  them.  In  his  content 
ment  at  being  freed  from  them,  it  had  not  oc 
curred  to  him  how  strange  it  was  that  he  never 
saw  Elizabeth  after  the  day  she  helped  him  home. 
But  now  he  wondered  over  it.  She  could  have 
put  herself  in  his  way  if  she  had  wanted  to  ;  was 
it  possible  that  she  had  avoided  him  ? 

Elizabeth  had  a  steadfast  face  and  level  brows, 
and  eyes  that  looked  calm  to  the  extent  of  cold 
ness.  He  had  been  attracted  by  this  quiet  re 
serve  and  dignity  that  was  so  out  of  keeping  with 
her  apparent  place  in  life,  where  the  women  were 
usually  viragoes  and  worse.  When  he  knew  her 
better  and  found  out  how  far  her  father  had 
fallen,  he  put  down  the  good  qualities  to  heredity  ; 
for  as  her  mother  had  died  at  her  birth,  she  had 
always  been  free  to  be  the  lowest  of  the  low. 

Why  should  she  haunt  him  now?  He  struck 
his  stick  on  the  pavement  impatiently.  Poor 
Elizabeth !  What  had  become  of  her  and  her 
little  dog  Wamba  ?  Wamba  would  be  a  big  dog 
now.  A  sick  setter  puppy,  a  waif  whose  life  she 
had  saved.  He  remembered  so  well  when  she 
named  the  clumsy,  tumbling  creature.  The  men 
at  Marsden's  had  tried  to  drive  it  away,  but  she 
had  been  kind  to  it,  and  in  spite  of  everything  it 
would  creep  back  to  her  when  night  fell.  At  last 
they  were  about  to  kill  it,  when  Elizabeth  rescued 
it,  and  announced  that,  if  they  touched  it,  she 
would  retaliate  in  kind.  She  took  it  out  of  the 


JOHN  PA  GET.  225 

house  after  this,  and  by  the  light  of  the  moon 
she  bathed  the  poor  bruised  body  and  named  it 
Wamba. 

"  He  is  a  fool  in  his  faithfulness,"  she  said, 
looking  up  at  John,  and  in  the  moonlight  he  had 
seen  the  sneer  upon  her  lips.  It  was  pitiful  that 
a  girl  of  her  age  could  sneer  at  faith. 

Again  he  struck  his  stick  on  the  pavement. 
What  were  her  views  of  her  kind  now  ?  how  faith 
ful  had  she  found  them? 

The  last  time  that  he  had  ridden  out  to  Mars- 
den's,  Elizabeth  and  Wamba  met  him  on  the  edge 
of  the  chaparral.  The  picture  came  before  him 
vividly.  The  world  seemed  to  be  all  gray  sky 
and  gray  prairie  that  met  far  away  ;  down  in  the 
west  a  dash  of  red  like  a  smear  of  blood  ;  then 
the  line  of  leafless  chaparral,  and  a  white  speck. 
As  soon  as  he  descried  that  speck,  he  knew  it  to 
be  Elizabeth.  He  slackened  his  pace  after  he 
saw  her;  his  head  ached,  and  he  had  come 
against  his  will.  He  hated  all  the  world  that 
afternoon,  and  was  angry  that  Elizabeth  should 
wait  for  him.  Had  he  given  her  unnecessary 
pain  when  he  met  her?  She  had  looked  better 
than  usual.  Her  hair  rippled  back  prettily,  and 
she  had  on  a  plain,  dark  frock,  with  a  white  ker 
chief  about  her  throat.  This  was  the  white  he 
had  seen  so  far  away.  Every  circumstance  of 
that  evening  was  as  clear  in  his  mind  as  if  it  had 
just  happened.  How  rough  the  loft  was  where 
Elizabeth  lived  and  kept  her  few  belongings; 


226  JOHN  PA  GET. 

and  how  perfectly  neat.  He  had  been  astonished 
to  find  books  up  there  ;  remnants  of  what  her 
father  had  once  owned,  and  the  Marsden  coat-of- 
arms  pasted  in  under  the  old  man's  name!  She 
had  studied  each  one'  of  these  books,  and 
"  Wamba,  the  faithful  fool  "  had  appealed  to  her. 

"  I  am  a  faithful  fool,"  she  said,  "  my  dog  is 
another  ;  we  do  to  go  together.  I  have  named 
him  well.'5  John  could  hear  her  voice — he  could 
feel  her  close  beside  him  as  he  bent  to  rebuke 
her  for  her  bitter  words.  His  face  burned,  and 
his  breath  seemed  to  come  with  difficulty.  Was 
he  the  same  man  as  Elizabeth's  "  Jack?  " 

It  was  nearly  five  years.  She  had  loved  him, 
and  for  a  time  he  had  thought  honestly  that  he 
loved  her.  He  had  been  sure  of  it,  but  love  was 
higher  than  anything  he  had  given  Elizabeth. 
And  if  she  had  loved  him  truly,  she  would  have 
sent  him  from  her,  and  from  his  evil  companions. 
He  was  quite  sure  that  if  he  loved  anyone,  he 
would  put  her  good  before  his  own  happiness. 
Elizabeth  had  not  done  this,  and  yet  she  was 
coming  back  to  him  as  the  strongest  woman  he 
had  ever  known. 

Was  it  love  for  Beatrice  that  made  him  analyze 
love? 

During  these  days  when  John  was  trying  to 
readjust  himself  with  both  past  and  present, 
Claude  watched  him  curiously.  His  unique 
offer  to  shop  for  Beatrice  was  puzzling,  especially 
as  nothing  had  followed.  Since  then  he  had 


JOHN  FACET.  227 

held  aloof,  scarcely  seeming  to  observe  the  girl. 
Claude  thought  this  a  more  dangerous  sign  than 
the  effort  to  approach  her;  for  to  anything  ex 
cessive  there  must  come  a  reaction. 

He  wondered  if  John  realized  that  he  loved 
Beatrice,  and  was  fighting  the  feeling ;  or  was 
still  fighting  blindly  against  acknowledging  the 
feeling. 

In  either  case  there  would  come  a  reaction, 
and  Claude  determined  to  be  prepared. 


XVII. 

"  How  the  world  is  made  for  each  of  us  ! 

How  all  we  perceive  and  know  in  it 
Tends  to  some  moment's  product  thus, 
When  a  soul  declares  itself — to  wit, 
By  its  fruit,  the  thing  it  does  !  " 

MARTIN  KINSEY  was  a  great  resource  to 
John  at  this  time  ;  so  was  Marjorie  ;  and  it 
was  not  long  before  the  latter  was  going  with  the 
two  men  on  some  of  their  expeditions.  "  I  am 
old  and  ugly  enough,"  she  said,  laughing,  "and 
sometimes  it  is  almost  exciting.  One  does  not 
know  Mr.  Paget,  Cousin,  until  one  sees  him  at 
work.  The  whole  man  is  changed  and  filled 
with  magnetism,  and  the  worst  people  heed  him." 

"  And  the  smells,  Marjie  ?  " 

"  They  are  pretty  bad,  but  I  carry  my  salts, 
and  when  no  one  is  looking  I  take  a  sniff.  Last 
night  I  persuaded  Martin  Kinsey  to  take  me 
where  I  could  see  Mr.  Paget  at  his  rescue  work. 
Of  course  this  is  a  dead  secret  between  you  and 
me  and  Beatrice — not  even  Mr.  Paget  knows — 
for  it  was  questionable.  But  I  assure  you  it  was 
far  better  than  any  play.  Mr.  Paget  went  to 
this  saloon  entirely  alone,  he  will  go  alone  ; 
Martin  Kinsey  is  so  devoted  to  him,  however, 


JOHN  PA  GET.  229 

that  he  follows  and  watches.  We  watched  last 
night  from  the  shadow  of  a  shop  awning.  There 
was  a  screen  across  the  entrance,  but  there  was  a 
group  of  men  between  it  and  the  door.  As  Mr. 
Paget  stepped  in  a  man  jostled  him  purposely, 
and  Mr.  Paget  asked  him  why. 

"  '  Because  you've  got  no  business  here.' 

"  '  This  is  a  free  country,'  Mr.  Paget  answered, 
'and  if  I  have  money  to  pay  for  a  drink,  I  sup 
pose  I  may  come  and  get  it  as  well  as  you." 

The  men  all  gathered  round  him  and  asked 
what  office  he  was  running  for. 

"  '  I  want  to  be  a  priest  in  the  Church,'  he  said. 
You  should  have  heard  the  awful  groan  they 
gave.  Mr.  Kinsey  made  me  take  my  hand  off  his 
arm. 

"  '  They  may  hustle  him,'  he  said,  '  and  I  must 
be  ready  to  run  in.'  Actually  I  began  to  tremble 
with  excitement,  but  Mr.  Paget  stood  there  very 
quietly  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  until 
the  same  man  jostled  him  again,  then  he  turned 
and  said  : 

"  '  I  have  been  a  cowboy  out  on  the  border;  I 
have  had  to  fight  for  my  life  many  and  many  a 
time,  and  possibly  I  can  teach  you  something. 
Why,  once  ' — and  then  he  began  to  tell  a  story. 
I  cannot  pretend  to  tell  it,  but  every  man  there 
listened,  and  when  he  was  done  three  or  four 
went  away  with  him.  Awful  looking  brutes, 
walking  off  so  quietly.  And  to  see  Martin  Kin- 
sey's  eagerness.  This  philanthropy  business 


230  JOHN  PAGET. 

used  to  be  a  fad ;  now  he  is  so  desperately  in 
earnest  that  at  last  he  is  interesting." 

"But  you  must  not  go  into  the  rescue  work, 
Marjorie,  that  is  going  too  far;  suppose  there 
had  been  a  difficulty  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  run  for  the  police." 

"  And  have  had  the  town  agog  over  Miss  Van 
Kuyster  in  the  witness-box  of  the  police  courts  ! 
/  would  have  had  to  go  with  you." 

"  Poor  cousin,  it  would  have  been  truly  awful ; 
Claude  would  have  had  convulsions." 

"  Unimaginably  awful  !  Did  you  have  on  this 
frock  ?  " 

"  No.  You  need  not  be  afraid  of  me ;  that 
garment  hangs  in  the  trunk  room.  But  does  Mr. 
Paget  go  to  Newport  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not:  I  think  he  will  only  run  up 
and  down  :  he  is  absorbed  in  this  work.  You 
will  come  as  usual  ?  " 

"  I  will,  but  not  immediately;  I  will  follow  in 
in  a  week  or  two." 

"  Why  do  you  wait  ?  " 

"Why  do  I  go?  Why  do  I  do  anything? 
Because  there  is  nothing  else  to  do.  I  think  that 
I  am  entertained  just  now,  so  will  remain  where 
I  am  until  that  fallacy  is  exploded  ;  then  I  will 
come  to  you  in  Newport." 

"  And  you  think  that  this  delusion  will  last  a 
whole  fortnight  ?  " 

"  A  week  at  the  outside ;  the  second  week 
will  be  consumed  in  preparations." 


JOHN  PA  GET.  231 

"  Why  do  you  not  study?  "  Beatrice  asked. 

They  had  forgotten  the  girl,  and  now  Marjorie 
turned  to  her,  laughing. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  would  have  me  pose  as  a 
bluestocking?  " 

"  I  thought  it  would  entertain  you,  and " 

"  And  improve  my  mind  ?  Say  it  out,  dear,  I 
like  your  little  reproofs  and  suggestions.  But  to 
what  purpose  besides  entertainment  would  all 
this  mental  effort  tend  ?  A  few  years  of  superior 
education  for  which  my  circle  has  no  use,  and 
then?  Nirvana?" 

"  What  is  Nirvana  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  Buddhist  heaven,  which  practically 
amounts  to  annihilation." 

"  But  that  is  not  true.  When  we  die,  we  go 
into  another  life  and  carry  all  the  best  things 
with  us." 

"Languages  and  music  and  drawing?" 

"Not  the  actual  things,  the  Mother  said;  but 
all  the  true  and  the  beautiful  and  the  good  that 
education  introduces  us  to.  Is  it  not  so,  Aunt 
Claudia?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"So  I  must  study?  Perhaps  I  shall.  Which 
instructress  goes  with  you?" 

"  I  left  it  to  Beatrice,  and  she  has  selected  Miss 
Grigsby." 

"The  cross  one?" 

"She  is  so  poor,"  Beatrice  explained,  "and  I 
thought  the  change,  and  having  enough  to  eat, 


232  JOHN  FACET. 

would  be  good  for  her.  Claude  said  that  he 
would  do  German  and  French  with  me." 

"  So  Claude  is  making  use  of  his  education.  I 
will  assist  in  your  music,  perhaps.  But  what  can 
Sister  Grigsby  teach  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  is  awfully  learned  !  " 

"  That  sounds  well.  Perhaps  I  shall  follow  you 
in  ten  days,  cousin ;  this  educational  mania  may 
be  interesting." 

"It  is  interesting,"  Beatrice  insisted.  "Claude 
makes  everything  so  easy.  I  begin  to  think  that 
after  all  I  am  not  entirely  stupid.  John  used  to 
make  me  feel  very  hopeless." 

"What  did  John  teach  you?"  Marjorie  asked. 

"  I  used  to  read  Church  history  aloud  to  him. 
He  said  that  the  history  of  the  Church  was  the 
history  of  the  world.  Maybe  it  is ;  I  do  not 
remember,  but  it  was  awfully  dismal,  and  I  used 
to  cry.  You  see,  Joh'n  had  reason  to  think  me 
dull  ;  he  needs  clever  people  like  you,  Miss  Van 
Kuyster,  to  interest  him." 

"  Thank  you.  Claude,  I  suppose,  is  not  so 
exacting." 

"Claude?  Nobody  knows  how  gentle  and 
patient  he  is.  I  have  never  had  anyone  so  good 
to  me  before." 

"  And  you  love  him  very  much  ? "  Marjorie 
asked. 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's  embroidery  needle  moved 
more  slowly,  and  Marjorie  walked  to  the  window. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  233 

"  No  one  has  ever  been  unkind  to  you  ?  "  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  suggested. 

"Oh,  no!  but  nobody  ever  troubled  to  ask  if  I 
were  happy  or  not;  nobody  ever  put  me  first 
before.  It  is  nice  to  be  first ;  don't  you  think  so, 
Aunt  Claudia?" 

"  Yes,  child,  if  it  be  only  a  dog  that  loves  you 
best,  it  is  something." 

"Cousin!"  and  turning  from  the  window, 
Marjorie  laid  her  hand  impulsively  on  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster's  shoulder. 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  looking  up  with  a  serene 
smile;  "you  are  a  great  deal  to  me." 

The  spring  was  growing  into  summer,  and  the 
annual  move  to  Newport,  which  Beatrice  had 
looked  forward  to  as  a  great  joy,  was  now  in  the 
near  future,  but  she  had  ceased  to  think  of  it 
longingly,  for  the  city  life  had  become  a  charming 
thing.  Very  soon  she  had  been  promoted  from 
the  riding  club  to  riding  in  the  Park  with  Claude  ; 
besides,  Claude  had  taken  her  on  many  expedi 
tions,  introducing  her  to  art  exhibitions  and 
shops  that  were  dreams  of  delight.  Her  wish  to 
make  poor  children  happy  had  been  indulged  in 
many  ways,  and  Claude  thought  it  worth  a  for 
tune  to  see  her  face  when  she  was  distributing 
toys  in  a  day  nursery.  Always  free  from  care 
and  responsibility,  her  young  life  had  been  nega 
tively  comfortable;  now  it  had  become  positively 
happy.  Thanks  to  Claude,  even  her  lessons  had 


234  JOHN  FACET. 

been  made  pleasant,  and  all  Miss  Grigsby's  sharp 
criticisms  were  cleverly  blunted  before  they 
reached  her.  Miss  Grigsby,  however,  deeply 
resented  Claude's  interference ;  she  had  never 
forgiven  the  composition  he  had  dictated,  and 
once  had  gone  so  far  as  to  appeal  to  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster,  when  she  found  a  volume  of  Matthew 
Arnold's  poems  in  the  schoolroom.  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  listened,  then  told  her  that  Claude  had 
taken  charge  of  his  cousin's  education. 

Miss  Grigsby  was  not  agreeable,  and  Beatrice 
knew  that  she  could  easily  have  her  dismissed  ; 
but  she  had  seen  that  there  were  holes  in  the 
good  lady's  gloves,  and  that  on  cold  days  she 
looked  quite  blue,  and  she  said  in  confidence  to 
Claude : 

"  I  am  sure  she  does  not  have  enough  to  wear 
nor  to  eat." 

"And  you  think  that  is  why  she  is  cross?  " 

"I  am  sure  it  is;  and  since  I  have  lived  here  I 
have  such  a  horror  of  people  being  cold  and 
N  hungry.  In  the  South  it  is  easy  to  keep  warm 
and  not  starve;  but  here  the  streets  look  so  hard 
and  the  houses  so  unapproachable,  and  the  wind 
is  so  sharp.  I  feel  so  selfish  when  I  meet  a 
woman  hugging  herself  in  a  thin  shawl,  and  I  all 
wrapped  in  furs.  Once  I  bought  a  shawl  and 
made  Billings  carry  it  until  we  met  a  poor  woman. 
Billings  did  not  like  it ;  she  said  people  were 
looking  at  us.  Then  the  woman  said  such  bad 


JOHN  PA  GET.  235 

words  when  I  gave  her  the  shawl — it  was 
awful." 

"  Poor  child  !  "  and  Claude  laughed.  "  Did  the 
woman  put  on  the  shawl?" 

"  No.  Billings 'said  she  would  sell  it  for  drink. 
Do  you  think  she  did  ?  " 

"  Probably.  But  I  will  send  some  shawls  to 
Kinsey  to  distribute  for  you  at  one  of  his  station 
houses,  will  that  do?  " 

"You  are  so  good  to  me,  Claude." 

"  Pure  selfishness,  I  assure  you.  You  are 
'  something  to  do,'  don't  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  keep  you  very  busy,  and  make  no  return." 

"  Indeed  you  do.  You  sing  for  me  every 
evening,  making  me  feel  myself  a  Spanish  Hi 
dalgo,  owning  the  waters  of  youth  in  the  far-off 
'  Land  of  Flowers,'  and  a  private  bull-ring  at 
home ;  or  a  Mexican  ranchero  able  to  shoot  my 
neighbor  or  steal  his  cattle,  to  ride  like  the  wind 
across  the  prairies,  or  drink  myself  crazy.  And 
this  is  a  great  boon  to  a  poor  man  whose  only 
resort  is  an  extremely  conventional  club,  a  trot 
in  the  park,  and  the  whole  vista  of  the  future 
blocked  up  by  a  bald  head  and  an  enlarged  waist. 
You  put  a  touch  of  the  unusual  into  my  days, 
with  your  unblunted  sympathies  and  unique 
training." 

"  Aunt  Claudia  says  that  I  must  not  be  uncon 
ventional." 

"  My  darling  child,  that  is  a  woman's  view.     I 


236  JOHN  FACET. 

love  you  better  than  Aunt  Claudia  does.  I  think 
I  may  say  that  I  care  more  for  you  than  any 
one  else  does.  I  would  not  tell  you  anything 
that  was  not  for  your  good,  and  I  am  in  serious 
earnest  when  I  charge  you  on  no  account  to 
change.  Don't  try  to  be  like  other  women.  If 
you  do " 

The  girl  looked  up  wistfully. 

"  I  will  stop  loving  you  without  a  moment's 
grace." 

"O  Claude!" 

"  Indeed  I  will." 

"  But  could  you  ?  Can  people  stop  loving  all 
in  a  minute  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  can." 

"  I  could  not.  I  could  not  even  do  the  way 
John  does — forget  slowly." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  he  does  not  seem  to  remember 
that  I  am  in  the  world.  He  likes  to  talk  to  that 
Mr.  Kinsey,  though,  and  to  Miss  Van  Kuyster; 
they  seem  to  be  together  all  the  time." 

"  They  are  interested  in  the  same  things.  If 
you  want  to  interest  John,  now,  you  must  be  very 
wicked  or  very  poor.  To  be  pretty  and  com 
fortable  and  good  shuts  you  outside  the  pale  of 
John's  sympathies.  But,  of  course,  he  cares  for 
you  just  as  much  as  he  ever  did — cares  more  for 
you  than  for  anyone  else  in  the  world." 

To  himself  Claude  said :  "  Next  to  a  dictatorial 
devotion,  nothing  interests  a  woman  so  much  as 


JOHN  PA  GET.  237 

a  pronounced  neglect."  Unconsciously  John 
had  taken  the  strongest  weapon  that  Claude  had 
left  him;  and  Claude,  being  a  "child  of  this 
world,"  took  pains  to  assure  the  girl  of  the  mean- 
inglessness  of  John's  apparent  absorption  in 
others. 


XVIII. 

"  And  if  any  painter  drew  her, 
He  would  paint  her  unaware 
With  a  halo  round  her  hair. 

And  all  voices  that  address  her, 
Soften,  sleeken  every  word, 
As  if  speaking  to  a  bird. 

And  all  hearts  do  pray,  '  God  love  her  ! ' 
Ay,  and  always  in  good  sooth, 
We  may  all  be  sure  He  doth." 

IF  the  life    in   New  York  had   grown   to  be  a 
pleasant  thing  to  Beatrice,  the  life  in  Newport 
seemed  a  dream  of  happiness. 

The  beautiful,  wide-spreading  villa  ;  the  shady 
piazzas  ;  the  lawns  sloping  down  to  the  cliffs  ; 
the  beds  of  brilliant  flowers  ;  the  beautiful  drives, 
the  boats,  the  sea.  The  gray  days  with  a  light 
wind  that  were  devoted  to  sailing  ;  the  long  rides 
and  drives  on  brilliant  days  ;  the  walks  in  the  fogs 
that  shut  them  away  from  the  world,  when  all 
was  mysterious,  and  the  booming  of  the  sea  grew 
awful.  It  was  like  a  fairy  story — too  strange  and 
too  pleasant  to  be  true. 

Miss  Grigsby  and  the  solid  studies  were  not  in 
much  demand;  for  from  the  beginning  Claude 


JOHN  FACET.  239 

insisted  that  Beatrice's  health  must  be  the  first 
consideration,  and  that  in  their  walks  and  rides 
he  was  teaching  her  geology  and  botany  and  like 
healthy  things.  In  spite  of  earnest  efforts  on 
Beatrice's  part,  however,  Claude  and  MissGrigsby 
did  not  get  on,  and  in  the  many  discussions  they 
had  Miss  Grigsby  generally  came  out  the  worse 
for  wear.  It  worried  Beatrice,  and  one  aftenoon 
when  she  and  Claude  were  walking  in  the  fog,  she 
asked  him  not  to  have  any  more  discussions. 

"  I  cannot  always  follow  them,"  she  said,  as  he 
helped  her  down  a  very  slippery  place,  "  and  they 
worry  me  for  a  longtime  afterward.  They  make 
me  feel  uncertain  about  you." 

"  And  why  not  about  Miss  Grigsby?"  Claude 
asked,  as,  landing  her  safely  on  the  beach,  he 
took  her  tennis  hat  and  gloves  of  which  she 
divested  herself,  and  put  them  in  his  pockets. 
She  liked  to  go  bare-headed  and  bare-handed, 
and  she  used  the  dense  fogs  as  screen  for  her 
little  unconventionalities.  Claude  drew  her  hand 
through  his  arm,  and  pushed  his  last  question — 
"  Am  I  so  far  below  Miss  Grigsby  that  I  cannot 
be  trusted?  " 

"  You  do  not  strike  me  as  being  safely 
religious." 

"  There  you  are  mistaken  ;  I  am  very  religious, 
and  with  what  I  think  the  highest  kind  of 
religion." 

"Are  you,  Claude?"  stopping  and  lifting  her 
face  to  his  wistfully.  "  If  I  thought  that  you 


240  JOHN  FACET. 

iwere  religious,  I  should  be  absolutely,  perfectly 
jhappy." 

As  they  stood  there  Claude  looked  away 
through  the  dimness  to  where  great  waves  rolled 
sullenly.  Gradually  he  was  coming  to  the  con 
clusion  that  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  was  right,  and 
Beatrice's  belief  was  in  her  flesh  and  blood.  He 
could  not  sway  her  from  these  principles  that 
seemed  to  be  the  foundation  of  her  whole  nature. 
He  could  not  let  her  go.  He  had  gone  over  this 
ground  many  times  of  late,  and  now  that  she 
pleaded  with  him  for  her  happiness,  he  reached  a 
decision  quickly.  He  paused  only  a  moment  as  he 
turned  his  face  out  to  sea,  then  looking  down 
into  her  eyes  he  said  : 

"  You  may  be  absolutely  and  perfectly  happy, 
Beatrice." 

"  True  ?  " 

"  Have  you  ever  fcund  me  false?  " 

11  I  could  not  stand  it  to  find  you  false." 

"But  even  though  I  am  religious,  your  faith  in 
me  is  not  quite  perfect  ?  " 

She  turned  away.  "  You  are  different  from 
anyone  I  have  ever  known,"  she  said;  "you  can 
argue  from  any  side " 

"  Beatrice ! " 

"  Wait  a  moment.     I  mean  that  you  are  not 

rigid  except  in  what  your  station  in  life  requires. 

Things  are  not  right  and  wrong  to  you  as  a  man, 

but  only  as  a  gentleman.     Do   you    see  what  I 

^  mean?     I  have  thought  about  it  a  great  deal." 


JOHN  PA  GET.  241 

Claude's  eyes  were  bright  with  surprise  and 
amusement. 

"You  are  an  arch  deceiver,"  he  said.  "  Under 
your  '  sweet  simplicity  '  you  are  dissecting  ruth 
lessly  my  moral — immoral  character.  It  is  not 
fair." 

"  Well,  you  so  often  say  'a  gentleman  can't  do 
that' — and  once — '  it  is  a  waste  to  spend  time  on 
any  low-caste  people.'  But  they  have  souls  and 
hearts,  and  right  is  right  for  a  common  man  as  it 
is  for  a  gentleman,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  No.  That  is  one  of  the  great  mistakes.  The 
proposition  that  before  God  all  men  are  equal, 
cannot  be  true.  The  Scriptures  tell  us  of  angels 
and  archangels  ;  and  the  Church  shows  us  arch 
bishops,  and  patriarchs,  and  popes,  and  bishops, 
and  priests,  and  deacons ;  down  to  nuns,  and 
women's  auxiliaries,  and  fashionable  guilds, 
down  almost  to  the  democracy  of  the  Salvation 
Army.  If  Heaven  and  the  Church  are  divine  in 
stitutions,  republics  cannot  be.  And  what  might 
be  quite  proper  for  the  highest  official  in  the  Sal 
vation  Army,  could  be  highly  improper  for  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  And  though  proper 
and  improper  are  not  hanging  matters,  save  in 
the  case  of  women,  they  are  degrees  of  right  and 
wrong  ;  and  once  you  admit  degrees,  rigid  lines 
become  impossibilities." 

"  But  the  Bible  does  say  that  God  is  no  re- 
spector  of  persons,"  Beatrice  persisted. 

"That  only  means  that  the  Almighty  does  not 


242  JOHN  PA  GET. 

gauge  man  as  man  does.  I  give  a  rich  man  def 
erence  willingly,  so  long  as  he  behaves  as  a  rich 
man  should.  I  salaam  profoundly  to  a  prince,  if 
•he  behaves  as  a  prince  should.  A  gentleman 
may  be  as  poor  as  '  Job's  turkey '  ;  I  honor  him  as 
much  as  the  prince,  if  he  lives  up  to  his  blood. 
Now,  the  general  rule  is  to  pay  deference  to  the 
money  and  the  title,  and  to  pass  over  the  poverty- 
stricken  gentleman.  This  is  to  respect  persons. 
Don't  you  see  that  more  is  required  of  a 
prince,  and  living  up  to  his  station  he  does  more 
than  a  rich  man — who  is  only  a  rich  man — can 
possibly  do  it  if  he  lives  up  to  every  responsi 
bility  ?  Obversely,  if  a  prince  fails,  he  deserves 
to  be  kicked  out  to  a  much  greater  distance  than 
the  rich  citizen  would." 

"  But  the  poor  creature  who  lives  in  the  slums  ? 
Everybody  in  his  class  of  life  is  wicked  and  dirty  ; 
so  all  that  you  could  ask  of  him  would  be  to  stay 
wicked  and  dirty?" 

"Your  logic  terrifies  me!  "  Claude  said,  laugh 
ing.  "But  you  are  right.  A  creature  who  is 
content  in  the  gutter  deserves  nothing  better, 
save  the  penitentiary." 

"  There ! "  and  she  stopped  and  faced  him 
again  ;  "  that  is  what  hurts  me — that  is  what  I 
mean  ;  it  is  a  hardness  that  could  become  cruelty. 
Father  and  John  think  as  you  do  about  station, 
but  they  said  that  the  higher  one  is,  the  more  one 
ought  to  try  to  help  up  lower  people." 

"  Shall  I  ask  my  tailor  to  dinner?  " 


JOHN  PA  GET.  243 

"  I  did  not  mean  socially — I  meant  in  a  Chris 
tian  way." 

"  My  child,  the  Christian  way  is  grand  in  theory; 
practically, — where  it  meets  the  social  question, — 
it  shades  off  into  social  Pharisaism.  '  I  should 
like  to  save  your  soul,  but  I  can't  give  you  a  seat 
in  my  pew  or  ask  you  to  dinner  ! '  Now  the  so 
cialist  comes  to  anarchy,  and  the  humanitarian 
makes  charity  into  a  science  that  leaves  the  hu 
manity  of  the  pauper  out  of  account,  because  it 
leaves  love  out  of  account.  Mine  is  the  only 
logical  position  ;  live  up  to  the  requirements  of 
your  station,  and  be  comfortable  in  believing  that 
the  law  of  '  the  survival  of  the  fittest '  is  the 
greatest  regulator  and  adjuster  possible." 

"  That  is  so  unmerciful." 

"  Is  Nature  unmerciful  ?     It  is  her  chief  law." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  enough  to  argue  further,  but 
if  you  would  only  be  less  logical  and  more  mer 
ciful,  I  think  it  would  be  better." 

"If  you  will  love  me  I  will  be  anything" — lay 
ing  his  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

Something  in  his  eyes  made  her  look  falter, 
and  she  drew  away  from  him. 

"  I  do  love  you,"  she  said  slowly. 

"How  do  you  love  me?"  Putting  his  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  his  sack-coat,  and  looking 
down  on  her  much  as  a  cannibal  might  have 
done. 

"With  all  my  heart,"  she  answered  simply; 
"just  as  I  love  John." 


244  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  Do  you  love  me  enough  to  give  yourself  to 
me  ?"  he  went  on. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  marry  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  should  ask  Aunt  Claudia  that,"  with  an 
access  of  dignity;  "she  or  John  must  de 
cide."  . 

"  Shall  I  ask  them,  then  ?  "  and  in  spite  of  him 
self  he  smiled.  "  And  if  they  give  you  to  me  will 
you  come?" 

"Of  course." 

"And  love  me  better  than  you  love  John?" 

"I  do  not  know  if  I  can  promise  that." 

"The  devil!" 

"  I  have  loved  John  all  my  life,  you  see." 

"  But  it  is  wicked  to  love  anyone  more  than 
you  love  your  husband." 

"Oh!  but  many  girls  love  their  father  and 
mother  better  than  their  husbands,'^  and  she 
looked  curiously  at  Glaude,  who,  equally  divided 
between  amusement  and  annoyance,  was  pulling 
his  mustache  rather  savagely.  "  Sister  The"rese 
told  "me  so ;  and  when  I  asked  the  Mother  she 
said  that  if  I  respected  my  husband,  that  would 
be  all  that  any  well-brought-up  girl  could  do  at 
first — that  the  love  would  come  afterward." 

"And  if  it  did  not?" 

"  There  would  be  the  respect." 

"  Suppose  that  after  you  were  married  you 
should  meet  someone  you  loved  better  than  your 
husband?" 


JOHN  PAG£7\  245 

"  That  would  be  impossible — it  would  be 
wrong." 

"  And  wrong  is  impossible  to  you  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  impossible  deliberately  to  choose 
wrong,  I  think ;  just  as  jumping  off  that  cliff 
would  be  impossible  unless  I  lost  my  mind." 

"I  see." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  little  while, 
then  Claude  said,  "I  will  ask  for  you,  then." 

"Do  you  really  want  me?"  Looking  up  and 
coloring  like  the  inside  of  a  sea-shell. 

"  I  really  want  you,"  Claude  answered  quietly, 
while  the  veins  in  his  forehead  stood  out  like 
cords. 

"  I  am  so  simple,  Claude,  and  ignorant — I  am 
so  young — I  am  afraid  you  will  grow  weary." 

"  Will  you  come  to  me  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  after  awhile  you  will  love  me  better  than 
all  the  world?" 

"  Of  course  ;  and  you  are  so  good  to  me,  it  will 
not  take  long." 

Claude  stopped  still ;  he  longed  to  shout  with 
laughter;  he  almost  wished  that  Marjorie  were 
there  to  see  the  humorous  side  of  the  position — he 
longed  to  snatch  up  the  girl  and  rush  away  with 
her  to  the  ends  of  the  world.  Instead,  he  said  : 

"I  asked  the  mater  for  you  long  ago,  dear,  and 
she  said  yes  ;  but  I  wanted  to  win  you  for  myself, 
so  I  did  not  tell  you.  I  asked  the  very  first 
evening  after  dinner." 


246  JOHN  FACET. 

Beatrice's  eyes  grew  wide  with  wonder.  "  Be 
fore  I  knew  anything,  or  had  any  good  clothes?" 

"Before  you  had  been  in  the  house  twelve 
hours.  But  I  wanted  to  win  you — have  I  ?  " 

She  turned  her  face  away,  looking  out  to  sea. 
All  the  while  he  had  loved  her!  How  kind,  how 
gentle,  how  patient  he  had  been  ;  how  he  had 
watched  over  her!  In  all  her  life,  no  better 
thing  had  come  to  her — no  better  thing  could 
come  to  her. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  looking  up  into  his  shin 
ing  eyes — "  yes,  you  have  won  me." 

He  drew  her  close  to  him  and  laid  his  cheek 
against  her  little  wet  face.  "You  will  never  be 
sorry?"  he  asked — "never  lose  your  mind  and 
want  to  jump  over  the  cliff?" 

"Never,  I  think." 


XIX. 

"  An  unaccomplished  destiny 
Struck  cold  his  forehead,  it  may  be." 

I  come  in,  mother?"  And  Claude  ham- 
mered  impatiently  on  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's 
dressing  room  door. 

"  Yes,  come  in.  My  dear  boy,  you  are  soaking 
wet  !  " 

"  Only  fog  ;  we  have  been  out  walking,  Beatrice 
and  I." 

"  Instructing  her  as  to  amphibious  animals,  I 
suppose." 

"  Anything  you  like.  But  do  you  know  how 
nuns  conduct  betrothals  ?  " 

"  Claude  !  " 

"  I  am  in  earnest.  I  have  proposed  to  Bea 
trice." 

"  Of  course " 

"There  was  no  'of  course'  in  the  matter," 
Claude  interrupted  ;  "  she  was  as  proper  and  as 
simple  as  possible  ;  but  I  see  that  if  this  thing  is 
not  done  formally,  as  the  Reverend  Mother  would 
do  it,  she  will  not  be  satisfied.  A  finished  co 
quette  could  not  have  tormented  a  man  into  a 
finer  frenzy  than  she  did  me." 

•'  How  charming  !  I  wish  I  had  been  there," 


248  JOHN  FACET. 

"  I  wish  you  had.  I  longed  for  someone  to 
enjoy  it  with  me.  I  love  her  a  thousand  times 
better  for  it." 

"  You  are  positively  beside  yourself." 

"  Of  course  I  am.  When  a  girl  defers  the 
whole  matter  to  her  guardian,  saying  coolly  that 
once  married  it  will  not  take  her  very  long  to 
love — that  anything  else  would  not  be  correct — 
it  is  enough  to  put  a  man  beside  himself." 

"  How  remarkable !  "  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said. 
"  Unconsciously  that  child  has  managed  you  as 
no  wisdom  could  have  done." 

"  True  ;  she  binds  me  hand  and  foot  by  her 
simple  passivity.  If  you  should  say  no,  I  believe 
she  would  resign  me  cheerfully  because  it  would 
be  right." 

"  I  told  you  so." 

"Yes.  But  can  you  make  this  thing  formal 
and  solemn,  as  the  Mother  would  ?  " 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  laughed.  "  I  can  only  send 
for  the  child  and  tell  her  how  glad  I  am."  Ring 
ing  the  bell.  "  I  am  glad,  since  you  seem  really 
to  love  her." 

"  Seem  !  "  Claude  repeated  as  Mrs.  Van  Kuys 
ter  spoke  to  the  maid.  "You  do  not  under 
stand." 

"  Perhaps  I  do  not — perhaps  that  is  why  I  am 
so  contented  and  happy — no  wrenching  emo 
tions." 

The  door  opened  and  Beatrice  came  in.  "You 
sent  for  me  ?  " 


JOHN  PA  GET.  249 

"  Yes,  dear  " — turning  and  holding  out  her  hand 
to  the  girl.  "  Claude  has  just  told  me  that  he 
has  spoken  to  you.  I  gave  my  consent  on  the 
first  day  of  your  arrival." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  " — and  her  voice  seemed  to 
fail  her. 

"  I  think  you  will  make  him  very  happy,"  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  went  on,  laying  the  little  hand  she 
held  in^Claude's.  "  I  am  glad  to  give  you  into  his 
keeping.  We  will  not  make  it  public  yet,  how 
ever,  you  are  so  young.  And  now  I  must  dismiss 
you  both  ;  I  must  dress  for  dinner." 

Beatrice  paused  a  moment,  then  looked  up 
wistfully.  "  Won't  you  kiss  me,  Aunt  Claudia," 
she  asked,  "  and  say  '  God  bless  you  ?  ' ' 

"  Of  course,  child,"  kissing  her  gently,  "  and 
God  will  bless  you,  you  are  so  good." 

Christine,  the  maid,  entered,  and  Claude  drew 
the  girl  away.  In  the  dusky  hall  he  paused,  and 
took  the  little  face  between  his  hands.  "You  are 
mine  now,"  he  said,  "  and  must  come  to  me  for 
all  your  love  and  blessings." 

"  Yes,  I  will ;  but  I  had  hoped  that  Aunt 
Claudia  loved  me  a  little." 

"She  does;  but  the  mater  either  used  up  all 
her  power  for  loving  long  years  ago,  or  she  has 
none,  I  cannot  decide  which.  But  I  love  you 
enough  for  two,  dear ;  will  not  that  satisfy 
you  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  kind." 

"  But  it  does  not  satisfy  you  ?  " 


250  JOHN-  PA  GET. 

"  Of  course.  I  should  be  ungrateful  indeed  if 
I  were  not  satisfied.  I  wish  old  Angela  were 
here,  or  John.  I  will  write  to  John — will  not 
you  ?  " 

"Yes.  Good-by  until  after  dinner,"  and  he 
kissed  her  gravely.  She  baffled  him;  perhaps  she 
really  meant  it  when  she  said  she  would  have  to 
learn  to  love  him.  She  did  not  seem  to  love  him 
now. 

Writing  to  John  was  almost  a  sort  of  vivisec 
tion.  Yet,  John  had  not  raised  a  finger  to  stop 
him,  and  he  must  have  seen  what  was  going  on. 
He  would  simply  announce  the  fact — the  shorter 
the  better  ;  but  it  was  hot  a  pleasant  job.  And 
yet,  if  John  knew,  as  he  was  beginning  to  realize 
painfully,  how  elusive  was  the  prize,  would  he 
find  much  to  envy  ?  That  Beatrice  was  capable 
of  a  great  and  absorbing  passion  of  devotion  he 
was  absolutely  certain.  Why  had  not  he  wakened 
it?  She  was  undoubtedly  fond  of  him — he 
made  her  happy — she  would  miss  him  if  he  were 
gone,  and  yet,  she  eluded  him  at  every  turn. 
Was  it  the  spiritual  side  of  her — the  religious, 
fetish-worshiping  side  of  her — that  evaded  him  ? 
She  was  not  satisfied,  herself ;  the  blessing  she 
had  asked  for,  the  wish  for  the  old  servant  and 
for  John,  showed  it.  When  John  came,  would 
she  turn  to  him  and  find  the  vacuum  filled? 
Claude  swore  a  little  under  his  breath.  He  must 
keep  John  away  until  he  had  won  the  girl  en 
tirely. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  251 

This  view  of  John's  relations  with  Beatrice 
made  the  letter  an  easier  thing  to  compose. 

John  found  the  letters  on  the  hall  table  after  a 
long  day's  work.  The  woman  left  in  charge  had 
lighted  the  lamps  in  the  study  and  in  the  hall, 
but  this  evening  he  seemed  to  realize  all  the 
darkness  in  the  great  still  house.  In  the  day  he 
did  not  think  of  his  loneliness  ;  his  work,  as  as 
sistant  in  a  down-town  mission,  occupied  him 
fully,  and  his  meals  were  taken  in  a  restaurant, 
but  this  evening  he  was  unusually  tired,  and 
things  seemed  dreary. 

He  had  begun  to  think  that  the  sufferings  of 
the  poor  were  as  great,  if  not  greater,  in  summer 
than  in  winter.  The  heat  was  so  intense  ;  the 
crowded  tenements  were  so  insufferable.  Why 
did  not  all  die — men,  women,  and  children  ? 

He  had  buried  two  little  children  that  day — he 
was  always  glad  to  do  it — to  feel  that  they  were 
at  rest.  The  mothers  did  not  regret  it,  either — 
"They  are  better  off,"  was  the  formula.  And 
now  he  was  really  glad  of  the  property  his  aunt 
had  settled  on  him,  for  there  was  so  much  to  be 
done.  Work  enough  to  fill  hundreds  \>f  lives ; 
and  to  do  it  properly  the  lives  ought  to  be  un- 
trammeled.  Nothing  to  hold  one  back,  nothing 
to  tempt  one,  not  even  sympathy  that  would  say: 
"You  are  overworked  ;  you  have  done  more  than 
your  share " — or  "  Your  work  is  so  noble,  so 
high!"  Human  nature  was  too  weak  even  for 


252  JOHN  FACET. 

this  encouraging  praise.  The  only  way  was  to 
lose  self ;  to  forget  if  one  were  tired  or  hungry  ;  to 
forget  whether  others  worked  or  idled ;  to  forget 
that  praise  or  blame  existed.  That  was  the  only 
way.  Never  to  loosen  rein  ;  never  to  lessen  the 
spur  ;  to  drop  in  the  race,  and  die  on  the  roadside — 
this  was  to  live.  And  he,  feeling  himself  weaker 
than  most  men,  must  drive  himself  without 
mercy,  must  never  look  either  to  the  right  or  to 
the  left.  He  was  too  weak  to  dare  the  happy 
mean. 

He  leaned  back  wearily  in  the  deep  chair,  his 
letters  held  loosely.  Only  one  thing  haunted 
him — a  doubt  as  to  his  duty.  Had  he  not  tram 
meled  himself  in  the  past  ?  Those  old  ties  that, 
in  his  early  zeal  for  a  purer  life,  he  had  broken  so 
relentlessly;  had  he  had  a  right  to  break  them? 
Legally,  yes, — in  the  letter  he  was  free, — but  the 
spirit  ?  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  the  face  of  Eliza 
beth  rose  up  before  him.  She  had  left  him  abso 
lutely  free,  and  he  had  used  his  freedom  to  drop 
her  out  of  his  life.  She  had  made  no  motion 
to  recall  or  to  reproach  him — she  had  never  sent 
him  even  a  message.  Could  he  have  been  as 
strong  as  that  ?  It  was  almost  grand,  for  he  knew 
that  she  loved  him. 

He  had  never  questioned  his  action  with  regard 
to  Elizabeth  until  he  found  that  he  loved  Bea 
trice. 

At  the  thought  of  the  girl,  a  relaxing  despair 
seemed  to  sweep  over  him,  and  his  head  drooped 


JOHN  PA  GET.  253 

on  his  breast.  He  had  never  known  what  love 
was  until  now,  and  now  he  knew  how  Elizabeth 
had  suffered;  and  was  suffering  still,  perhaps; 
for  Elizabeth  would  not  forget.  Was  it  his  duty 
to  search  her  out  ?  It  could  not  be ;  it  would  de 
stroy  him  heart  and  soul.  He  would  never  try  to 
win  Beatrice,  or  any  woman,  but  he  could  not 
go  back  to  the  remnants  of  those  days  he  had 
learned  to  loathe.  The  Prodigal  had  not  gone 
back  to  the  husks  and  the  swine. 

How  hard  he  tried  to  deceive  himself — he  knew 
Elizabeth  was  not  that. 

He  drew  himself  together.  This  struggle  beset 
him  whenever  a  quiet  moment  came — beset  him 
in  his  devotions — in  his  sleep.  He  was  weary, 
and  looked  at  his  letters.  One  from  Claude — one 
from  Beatrice.  Did  it  mean  anything,  their  coming 
together?  Any  letter  might  tell  him  the  thing 
he  dreaded  to  hear.  Day  after  day  he  told  him 
self  :  "  It  is  only  a  matter  of  time" — but  he  shrank 
from  it  as  he  would  shrink  from  putting  a  red-hot 
iron  into  an  open  wound  ! 

He  read  Claude's  letter  first.  It  was  a  plain, 
clear  statement  of  the  fact  that  Beatrice  had 
accepted  him,  and  he  hoped  that  John,  as  co- 
guardian  with  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster,  would  approve. 
Then  he  went  on  to  name  the  most  liberal  settle 
ment — a  fortune,  in  short. 

John  read  it  through.  A  good  letter  from  an 
honorable  gentleman  ;  what  more  could  any 
guardian  ask?  He  opened  Beatrice's  note, 


254  JOHN  FACET. 

DEAR  JOHN  : 

I  am  to  marry  Claude.  He  asked  Aunt  Claudia  long  ago, 
and  she  consented,  but  he  did  not  tell  me,  because  he  wanted 
to  win  me  himself.  Do  you  like  it  ?  Claude  is  very  good  to 
me,  and  gives  me  all  I  can  possibly  want,  except  you,  and 
I  want  to  see  you  very  much.  You  do  not  seem  to  care  for 
me  now  as  you  used  to  do  at  home.  You  seemed  to  be  fond 
of  me  then  ;  now  you  have  put  me  to  one  side,  and  only  your 
work  interests  you.  I  am  not  jealous  of  the  work,  but  I  am 
homesick.  I  was  happy  and  contented  until  I  found  that  Aunt 
Claudia  had  given  me  away,  but  that  has  made  things  so 
irrevocable.  I  cannot  keep  house  for  you  now  as  you  prom 
ised.  Do  not  think  that  I  am  unhappy  ;  I  am  not,  and  I  love 
Claude  very  much,  but  Claude  is  not  you,  and  there  is  no 
place  like  our  shabby  little  home  in  Corpus.  Why  did  we 
ever  come  away  ?  When  Aunt  Claudia  gave  me  to  Claude 
she  did  not  kiss  me  nor  bless  me  until  I  asked  her  ;  and  then 
she  kissed  me  on  the  cheek  and  said  she  was  sure  that  God 
would  bless  me  because  I  was  good.  I  longed  for  father  or 
you,  or  even  old  Angela — for  somebody  who  loved  me  really. 
Have  you  not  time  to  come  down  ? 

Lovingly, 

BEATRICE. 

John  folded  it  carefully,  returned  it  to  its  en 
velope,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  An  involuntary 
thrill  of  exultation  went  over  him.  Claude  had 
not  won  the  girl  yet !  Dear  little  thing — so  pure 
— so  gentle.  What  a  paradise  he  could  make  for 
her,  now  that  he  understood  her!  He  had  been 
mistaken  in  trying  to  train  her ;  she  needed  no 
training,  only  love  ;  for  her  heart  would  always  be 
a  child's  heart,  trusting  and  unquestioningly  faith 
ful.  She  had  keen  observation,  but  never  any 
harsh  judgment.  Evil  puzzled  her,  and  always 


JOHN-  PA  GET.  255 

would.  Claude  had  read  her  more  quickly  than 
he,  and  of  course  would  win  her — unless  !  John 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  How  base  he 
was  !  He  must  not  try  to  win  her ;  he  had  decided 
that ;  and  he  must  even  refuse  her  little  prayer 
to  come  to  her.  She  had  better  believe  him  to 
be  selfishly  absorbed  in  his  work.  Claude  was 
her  future,  and  surely  it  was  a  good  future.  He 
turned  to  the  table  ;  he  would  write  at  once  and 
destroy  the  temptation.  God  would  help  him  to 
find  peace,  once  he  had  put  this  thing  aside.1 

A  short  note  to  Claude,  and  to  Beatrice  a  long 
letter.  He  sent  his  sympathy  and  blessing,  and 
showed  her  how  bright  her  future  could  be.  Then 
he  described  his  work,  and  told  of  the  suffering 
he  witnessed  day  after  day — of  the  sick  and 
dying,  who  needed  him.  "  This  is  my  work  that 
God  has  given  me  to  do,"  he  finished,  "  and  I 
must  not  leave  it,  even  for  you  whom  I  love  far 
better  than  any  except  God.  You  must  not 
think  for  a  moment  that  I  have  forgotten  you  ; 
your  welfare  lives  in  my  heart ;  your  work  in  life 
will  be  to  make  the  lives  of  those  about  you 
brighter  and  happier  ^by  simply  living  and  being 
yourself.  I  only  ask  you  to  add  to  this  work 
some  thoughts  and  prayers  for  your  brother,  that 
I  may  be  strong  to  resist  temptation,  and  that, 
however  weak  and  sinful  I  have  been  or  may  be, 
God  will  forgive  me,  and  bless  my  work  to  my 
fellows.  I  ask  for  nothing  but  work — His  work. 
When  I  go  back  to  the  South,  wherever  I  may 


25  6  JOHN  PA  GET. 

be  stationed,  you  and  Claude  will  come  to  me. 
In  spite  of  all  the  ease  and  luxury  you  find  here 
I  think  you  will  never  cease  to  love  the  South 
and  your  brother  John." 

He  inclosed  this  letter  in  Claude's.  It  made 
a  formidable  looking  missive,  and  Claude  felt  a 
little  uneasy  as  he  opened  it.  What  in  the  world 
had  John  to  say  to  him,  that  would  require  such 
a  volume  ? 

"  From  Jack,"  he  said,  as  he  tore  it  open. 
Marjorie  looked  up  quickly.  The  engagement 
was  no  surprise  to  her,  but  she  wondered  a  little 
how  John  would  take  it,  and  she  looked  with  in 
terest  at  the  thick  letter  that  Claude  was  opening. 
The  thickness  was  all  due  to  an  inner,  unsealed 
envelope.  Claude  turned  it  over. 

"  For  you,  Beatrice,"  he  said.  "  I  have  only  a 
note." 

It  was  very  short  ;  but  as  Claude  read  his  face 
changed.  How  he  had  mistaken  this  man  in 
judging  him  by  worldly  standards.  How 
ashamed  he  felt  of  the  thought  he  had  entertained 
that  he  must  take  Beatrice  farther  away.  John 
was  grand.  He  handed  the  note  to  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster.  "  It  is  the  letter  of  an  anxious  father," 
he  said  lightly,  feeling  obliged  to  say  something 
for  his  own  relief.  "  You  read  it  also,  Marjie,  then 
maybe  Beatrice  will  let  me  have  a  look  at  hers." 

Beatrice  started  and  looked  up  ;  there  was  a  sus 
picious  moisture  in  her  eyes.  "  May  I  read  it  first 
by  myself?"  she  asked. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  257 

"  Of  course  !  "  Claude  answered.  "  I  was  only 
joking,  dear" — and  rising,  he  held  the  door  open 
for  her. 

"  John  loves  her  better  than  you  do,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  said  when  Claude  returned  to  his  seat. 

"  He  cannot,  my  dear  mother." 

"  He  must ;  he  is  a  better  man." 

"  Oh !  that  sort  of  better  ;  I  grant  you  that ; 
John  is  too  good  ;  he  is  going  to  make  hash  out  of 
his  life.  He  had  a  far  better  chance  for  Beatrice 
than  I  had,  and  why  he  did  not  take  it  I  cannot 
imagine.  Some  religious  fad,  as  I  told  you  from 
the  beginning.  He  has  lived  a  wild  life  on  the 
border,  in  his  early  youth,  and  his  one  idea  seems 
to  be  to  atone  for  it  ;  or,  he  might  have  ties  we 
know  nothing  of." 

"  For  shame  !  "  Marjorie  cried  ;  "  I  have  never 
heard  you  make  a  really  mean  speech  before, 
Claude." 

"  My  dear  Marjorie,  you  are  hasty  ;  you  have 
lost  some  of  your  civilization  lately.  Listen : 
a  man  as  chimerically  conscientious  as  John 
would  make  ties  out  of  words  and  actions  that 
a  man  of  the  world — your  humble  servant — 
would  not  so  much  as  remember;  and  I  do  not 
doubt  but  that  some  ridiculous  youthful  folly  is 
the  rock  on  which  he  will  shipwreck  his  life. 
Now  repent  your  attack  on  my  innocent  self  !  " 

"  Mr.  Paget  is  the  noblest  man  I  have  ever 
met,"  Marjorie  said,  "  and  I  do  not  see  where 
the  line  of  conscientiousness  can  be  drawn.  It 


258  JOHN  PA  GET. 

seems  to  me  that,  logically,  it  is  all  or  nothing. 
The  lines  of  right  and  wrong,  of  duty  and  obli 
gation,  have  got  to  be  clear-cut  and  rigid." 

"  Whew  !  My  cousin,  my  comrade,  my  chum, 
have  I  lost  you  !  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  Marjorie  said.  "  I  realize  it, 
but  I  cannot  live  up  to  it.  Whether  I  would  or 
not,  habits,  follies,  weaknesses,  have  grown  too 
strong  for  me.  The  low  standards  of  my  youth 
hold  me  away  from  the  really  high.  I  am  even 
sorry  that  I  have  seen  it." 

"  My  dear  Marjorie,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said, 
"you  have  been  always  such  a  comfortable  per 
son,  I  beg  that  you  will  not  grow  morbid  and 
moody.  Really  you  are  one  of  my  chief  depend 
ences  in  life." 

"  Am  I,  Cousin?  I  am  glad  to  know  that.  I 
am  afraid  that  you  may  depend  on  me  still; 
once  I  have  confessed  my  sins,  I  will  not  change. 
We  shall  have  to  make  a  compact  like  the  blind 
man  and  the  deaf  man  ;  we  will  supplement  each 
other  and  hobble  through  life  as  best  we  can." 

Claude  walked  to  the  window  impatiently. 
"  I  am  sorry  that  John  and  Beatrice  ever 
came,"  he  said  ;  "  we  were  quite  comfortable  be 
fore,  and  now  we  are  upset  with  all  sorts  of 
motives,  and  stupid  introspection  and  moral 
indigestions  and  probings ;  and  I  turn  hot  and 
cold  a  dozen  times  a  day  because  of  a  child  who 
asks  uncomfortable  questions  and  has  a  hectic 
conscience.  My  dear  Marjorie,  come  to  your 


JOHN  PA  GET.  259 

senses.  Life  is  as  good  as  ever  it  was  ;  we  '  have 
our  nuts  and  teeth  to  crack  them'  and  nothing 
special  to  repent  of.  I  used  to  think  that  I 
yearned  for  earnestness — that  if  I  could  find  a 
thoroughly  conscientious  Christian,  I  would  per 
mit  myself  to  be  convinced,  and  throw  in  my  lot 
with  his.  Now,  I  begin  to  appreciate  old  Rat- 
cliffe.  He  told  me  once  that  I  was  mistaken, 
that  I  and  the  whole  parish  would  rather  be 
comfortable.  He  was  right ;  I  will  make  a 
motion  to  increase  his  salary.  If  earnest,  con 
scientious,  consistent  Christianity  means  John's  ^j,  \ 
way  of  doing  things — John's  standard  of  self- 
abnegation,  John's  rigid  scrupulousness,  I  am 

not  in  it.     I  cannot  rise  to  that  height,  and  I  will 

not  try." 

"  '  Fish  we  are  that  love  the  mud,'  "  Mrs.  Van 

Kuyster  quoted. 

"Anything     you    please,"    Claude   answered; 

"  and  my  work  in  life  will  be  to  make  Beatrice 

think  that  the  mud  is  the  sward  of  Paradise." 
"  You    will   never   do   it,"  Mrs.  Van    Kuyster 

said ;    "  I  told  you  so  long  ago." 

"God    forbid    that     you    should!"    Marjorie 

added.     "  It   would   be  an  awful  sin.     You  must 

leave  her  in  her  own  world,  Claude,  and  save  her 

happiness  from  shipwreck  by  never  allowing  her 

to  realize  your  world." 

"  You    speak  as   if    I    lived   in   the  depths  of 

degradation." 

"  Worse  than  that,"  Marjorie  answered,  "  you 


260  JOHN  FACET. 

\     do  not  live  at  all — you  exist  in  the  lifeless  desert  I 
of  critical    negation.     Nothing   sweet    nor   true  ^ 
can  live  there  ;  nothing  high  can  breathe  there. 
It  would  kill  Beatrice." 

"By  Jove!  I  must  go  until  you  people  have 
recovered  your  tempers.  I  advise  a  mint  julep 
to  pull  you  together" — and  he  went  out  hastily. 

"  I  told  you  that  all  would  break  their  hearts 
their  own  way,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said,  as  she 
threaded  her  needle.  "  Nothing  else  ever  satis 
fies  humanity." 

"  I  do  not  call  Claude's  a  heart,"  Marjorie 
answered ;  "  it  is  a  bundle  of  selfish  desires  and 
expediencies.  I  think  that  he  loves  Beatrice  as 
much  as  he  can  love,  but  he  cannot  touch  her  on 
the  spiritual  side,  for  Claude  has  no  spiritual  side  ; 
it  died  of  starvation.  Whether  one  holds  the 
Scripture  divine  or  not,  one  must  hold  it  as  wise, 
and  two  things  it  says  that  I  have  watched  work 
ing  out  in  Claude ;  one  is  that  spiritual  things  are 
spiritually  discerned — so  it  is  that  Claude  under 
stands  neither  Beatrice  nor  Mr.  Paget — the  other 
is,  that  there  is  a  spiritual  death." 

"  Perhaps,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  answered.  "  But 
which  shade  shall  I  vein  this  leaf  with?"  hold 
ing  up  her  embroidery.  "Light  or  dark?  my 
needle  is  threaded  with  dark." 

"  Light,  then,"  Marjorie  answered.  "  To  un 
thread  your  needle  puts  a  little  bit  of  work  into 
your  life." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyste    laughed.     "  You  are  saucy," 


JOHN  PA  GET.  261 

she  said  ;  "  I  will  repay  you  by  repeating  to  you 
what  I  have  been  telling  Claude ;  that  he  would 
be  happier  with  you,  if  he  could  get  you,  than 
with  Beatrice." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  agreed  with  me  entirely,  but  is  infatuated 
with  Beatrice.  I  have  always  hoped  that  you 
and  he  would  make  a  match.  I  care  for  you 
more  than  for  anyone  else." 

"Thank  you,  dear.  He  might  have,  if  Bea 
trice  and  John  had  not  come." 

"John?" 

"  I  only  mean  that,  until  I  knew  Mr.  Paget, 
Claude  was  the  best  I  had  found.  Not  that  I 
am  breaking  my  bundle  of  expediencies  over 
Mr.  Paget;  only  that,  relatively,  my  opinion  of 
Claude  has  lowered." 

"  It  may  come  about  yet,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
went  on.  "  For  if  John  lifts  a  ringer,  Beatrice 
would  obey." 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  you.  John  is  now  pos 
ing  in  Beatrice's  mind  as  a  fleeting  blessing,  and 
so  she  imagines  him  to  be  the  greatest  good  in 
life.  But  in  reality,  Claude  is  more  necessary  to 
her.  One  thing  I  am  sure  of,  however:  if  she 
realizes  Claude's  religious  position,  she  will  look 
on  him  with  horror.  I  must  warn  Claude." 

"  I  think  that  he  has  found  it  out  for  himself," 
Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  answered. 

"  He  says,  nevertheless,  that  Beatrice  must  be 
won  gradually  to  think  with  him." 


262  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  Still,  he  told  me  that  what  I  had  said  about 
the  girl  was  true — that  her  belief  was  in  her  flesh 
and  blood." 

"  It  is  ;  and  in  Mr.  Paget's  too.  When  Chris 
tianity  comes  to  me  as  theological  science,  it  is 
no  more  to  me  than  any  other  science ;  but 
when  I  see  it  incarnated,  as  Felix  saw  it  in  Paul, 
I  tremble." 

"  My  dear  Marjorie,  you  are  a  clever  woman  ; 
you  talk  extremely  well,  but  I  prefer  gossip  to 
reasoning,  and  embroidery  to  feeling.  I  stopped 
thinking  and  feeling  some  time  ago  ;  and  when 
you  harangue  me  on  these  subjects,  I  have  a 
pre-existent  sensation,  as  it  were  ;  just  as  they  say 
that  after  a  man's  leg  has  been  cut  off,  he  can 
still  feel  it,  and  have  a  shadowy  rheumatism  in 
it.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  sensation,  and  I  see  no 
wisdom  in  subjecting  myself  to  it." 

"You  shall  not  have  any  pre-existent  rheuma 
tism,  my  dear,"  and  Marjorie  patted  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster's  hand  gently ;  "  you  have  had  your 
share  of  the  real  thing,  and  if  ossification  has  en 
sued,  why,  so  much  the  better.  I  will  serve  up 
Mrs.  De  Loren  and  her  fascinating  cousin  Dick. 
Mr.  De  Loren  left  in  his  yacht  last  week,  you 
know,  for  a  year's  cruise,  and  immediately  Dick 
arrives  from  South  Africa,  via  Paris,  where  he  had 
paused  to  have  all  sorts  of  claws  and  teeth  and 
tails  set  and  trimmed  with  gold  and  diamonds; 
and  last  night  at  the  ball  the  fair  De  Loren  looked 
like  a  Fiji  idol  decorated  with  votive  offerings. 


JOHN  FACET.  263 

Newport  is  divided  between  envy  and  amuse 
ment." 

"  Delicious !  I  must  have  them  here  ;  how  can 
I  manage  it?"  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  leaned  for 
ward  in  an  interested  way.  "  It  is  such  a  bore, 
half  mourning  ;  the  laws  for  it  are  so  sketchy.  But 
I  must  see  them  together.  Dick  has  always  been 
a  favorite  of  mine,  and  now  that  he  has  made  a 
fortune,  he  must  be  charming — his  poverty  made 
him  melancholy." 

"  He  asked  after  you  last  night.  Had  heard 
of  all  the  changes  in  the  family,  of  Claude's  in 
fatuation  and  Beatrice's  beauty,  and  is  coming 
over  at  once.  Why  not  have  a  lilac  lunch  ?  It 
would  be  subdued  and  lovely ;  have  a  man  for 
every  woman — not  many  of  any  kind,  and  all 
clever.  It  would  be  charming.  I  could  design 
exquisite  costumes  for  the  three  of  us,  and  it 
would  pull  me  out  of  theology  and  slums  more 
than  anything  else.  Indeed,  the  memory  of 
these,  my  latest  fads,  will  season  most  charmingly 
the  racy  list  I  will  make  up." 

"  By  all  means,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said.  "  You 
are  yourself  once  more.  Claude  is  right ;  we 
used  to  be  most  comfortable  before  John 
came." 

"  And  I,"  Marjorie  answered,  "  feel  '  swept  and 
garnished,'  and  ready  to  house  seven  other  spirits 
worse  than  myself.  We  will  head  the  list  with 
Ted  Dennis  ;  he  is  the  wisest,  wittiest,  worst,  and 
most  charming  man  I  know.  I  had  best  realize 


264  JOHN  PA  GET. 

my  limitations  as  Claude  has  done.  I  cannot 
attain  to  Mr.  Paget's  heights,  so  I  will  not 
try." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  smiled.  "  It  is  warmer 
down  on  the  levels  with  the  rest  of  humanity," 
she  said. 


XX. 

'  '  Be  not  mocked  ! 

Life  which  ye  prize  is  long  drawn  agony  : 
Only  its  pains  abide  ;  its  pleasures  are 
As  birds  which  light  and  fly. 

Ache  of  the  birth,  ache  of  the  helpless  days, 
Ache  of  hot  youth,  and  ache  of  manhood's  prime 

Ache  of  the  chill  gray  years  and  choking  death, 
These  fill  your  piteous  time." 


1AHE  summer  was  a  trying  one,  hot  and  damp  ; 
and  all  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
land  people  found  fault  with  it.  Even  in  New 
port  it  was  "steamy,"  and  extremely  detrimental 
to  crisp  summer  finery.  Marjorie  declared  that 
never  in  her  life  before  had  she  spent  so  much 
money  on  clothes  ;  and  Beatrice  wondered  more 
than  once  at  the  succession  of  costumes  provided 
for  her.  Claude  kept  a  very  critical  eye  on  her 
wardrobe,  and  Billings  and  the  dressmaker  had 
much  to  do  to  please  him. 

"You  make  me  feel  like  a  doll,"  she  said  one 
day,  when  Claude,  after  changing  the  flowers  in 
her  belt,  rearranged  the  bows  of  her  sash.  "A 
useless  puppet  to  be  decorated  at  will." 

"  Did  not  Jack  tell  you  in  that  letter  that  your 
work  in  life  was  to  be  lovely?  "  Claude  retorted, 
"  and  is  not  my  effort  to  keep  you  '  trimmed  and 

265 


266  JOHN  PAGET 

burning  '  a  worthy  one  ?  You  are  the  light  of 
my  world,  and  I  cannot  allow  your  brilliancy  to 
be  dimmed  by  crooked  bows  or  ill-chosen  flowers. 
You  must  let  me  have  my  will  in  this." 

"  Of  course,  but  I  think  so  often  of  the  differ 
ence  between  us  and  John  ;  his  life  is  so  high 
and  noble." 

"  Do  you  remember  my  parable  of  the  lion 
and  the  butterfly?  You  are  the  flower,  I  am  the 
butterfly;  can  we  help  it?  It  is  fate,  dear.  Jack 
cannot  flutter,  I  cannot  roar.  We  had  better 
acknowledge  our  limitations  and  be  happy.  I 
am  free  to  say,  however,  that  I  prefer  being  the 
butterfly,  with  my  sweet  flower  to  make  life  one 
long  joy." 

"  It  is  not  right  tolove  a  creature  so,"  Beatrice 
said  gently.  "  God  will  not  bless  idolatrous  love." 

"A  jealous  God?" 

"  The  Mother  said  that  meant  watchful  over  us." 

"  The  Mother  has  a  long  head,  and  if  I  could 
be  converted,  you  and  the  Mother  would  do  it." 

"  How  do  you  mean  converted?  You  seem  very 
good  to  me." 

"  This  world  is  full  of  puzzling  things,  my  dear, 
and  of  fine  distinctions.  There  are  moral  men  and 
spiritual  men  ;  and  the  typical  moral  man  is 
seldom  spiritual,  being  sufficient  unto  himself ; 
and  the  typical  spiritual  man  is  not  always  moral, 
being  mystically  dependent  on  something  out 
side  of  himself,  that  does  not  seem  always  to 
make  him  toe  the  mark.  I  consider  myself  a 


JOHN  PA  GET.  267 

moral  man,  but  not  typical  ;  and  not  feeling  suf 
ficient  unto  myself,  I  pray  to  the  fetish  of  blood 
and  station  to  keep  me  straight.  Now  to  con 
vert  me  would  be  to  make  me  into  a  spiritual 
man.  Maybe  you  will,  in  time  ;  so  you  can  sat 
isfy  your  little  conscience  by  looking  on  me  as 
a  missionary  jurisdiction.  I  will  get  a  little  mitre 
for  you,  and  a  little  pastoral  staff ;  and  I  will  go 
so  far  as  to  say  '  baa  '  sometimes." 

"  You  frighten  me,  Claude,"  laying  her  hand 
on  his  arm  and  looking  up  wistfully.  "  If  I  did 
not  know  the  truth  from  your  own  lips,  that  you 
are  religious,  I  should  think  sometimes  that  you 
were  not  a  Christian.  Do  not  be  offended,  "  try 
ing  to  look  into  his  face  that  he  had  turned  away. 
"  I  know  better ;  I  see  how  kind  and  gentle  you 
are,  and  how  you  give  so  much  to  help  the  poor, 
and  how  you  go  to  church.  Of  course  I  know 
that  it  is  only  for  argument  and  for  fun  that 
you  talk  sometimes.  You  see  I  have  been  ac 
customed  to  only  one  kind  of  people — serious 
people  like  father  and  John  ;  and  you  are  so 
different  that  I  have  to  learn  you.  And  now 
and  then  a  sort  of  terror  comes  over  me — 'suppose 
Claude  means  all  he  says' — but  I  know  that  you 
do  not.  Won't  you  look  at  me?"  putting  her 
hand  on  his  cheek  to  turn  his  face  to  hers.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon — I  am  sorry  I  blunder  so." 

Claude  put  her  two  hands  together  in  his, 
"  Could  you  love  me  in  spite  of  everything  ?  "  he 
asked,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes, 


268  JOHN  PA  GET. 

i 

"  I  must  love  you  always." 

"  But  suppose  I  should  set  you  free,  and  tell 
you  that  I  am  a  false,  wicked  man." 

"  I  should  not  believe  you." 

"  Suppose  John  proved  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  Willfully  wicked — refusing  the  right  ?  " 

"  In  John's  eyes,  yes." 

"  It  would  break  my  heart,  and  I  should 
die." 

"  You  love  me,  then  ?  better  than  you  did  when 
you  were  given  to  me  ?  " 

"  Infinitely." 

"  Better  than  John?" 

"  Differently." 

"  How  do  you  love  John  ?" 

"  As  you  would  love  a  saint  to  whom  you  could 
pray.  I  used  to  be  bored  when  John  would  talk  to 
me  of  the  Christian  life,  for  I  had  not  learned  to 
think  then  ;  but  now — now  I  think  it  is  the  only 
life.  I  sit  and  think  sometimes  of  all  the  Mother 
taught  me — of  father — of  John.  What  high  lives  ! 
I  could  adore  them — so,  I  love  John.  " 

"  And  I  am  different;  on  a  lower  level — not 
adored — not  looked  up  to  ?" 

"  You  are  unkind." 

"  Then  truth  is  unkind." 

"  But  you  can  be  high  and  noble." 

"  What  is  it  to  be  noble?  I  do  not  lie,  nor 
cheat,  nor  traduce  my  neighbor.  I  am  not 
stingy  nor  low  in  my  tastes." 

"  You  are  like  the  young  man  in  the  Bible  ;  who 


JOHN  FACET.  269 

kept  all  the  law,  but  let  the  spirit  of  love  go — he""") 
did  not  give  himself.     The  Mother  said  that  the^/ 
only  true  life  was  the  life  lived  for  others — self- 
abnegation   is  true  nobility.     I  think  the  reason 
that  I  am  realizing  it  now  is  that  I  love  you.     To 
love  anything  better  than  one's  self  seems  to  make 
one  understand  so  many  things — to  see  so  much 
more  clearly." 

Claude  dropped  her  hands  and  turned  away. 
Beatrice  watched  him  with  a  pained  look  grow 
ing  in  her  eyes.  "Claude!"  she  called  softly. 
"Claude,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

He  turned  quickly  and  came  toward  her.  "  Beg 
my  pardon,  child?  I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  I 
went  away  because " 

"  I  had  hurt  you  ?  " 

"  Because  I  felt  so  unworthy." 

"  If  you  let  me  go  I  will  die,"  she  said.  "  My 
life  seemed  all  to  go  out  of  me  when  you  turned 
away." 

Claude  drew  her  close  to  him.  "  You  shall  not 
die,"  he  said  ;  "  but  remember,  I  have  confessed 
to  you.  I  am  not  noble  ;  my  aims  and  my  life 
are  not  high  as  you  count  high  ;  I  am  of  the 
earth,  earthy,  and  in  loving  me  you  come  down  to 
the  earth." 

"  Claude !  "  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  called,  and  Claude 
went  to  her,  where  she  was  in  the  study  across  the 
hall.  She  handed  him  a  letter.  "  From  Martin 
Kinsey,"  she  said. 

"  Martin  Kinsey?    Is  Jack  ill  ?  "  Then  he  rca.d  ; 


2 ?0  JOHN  FACET. 

I  take  the  liberty  of  writing  to  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster,  because  I  think  your  nephew  needs  some  good 
advice  and  some  care.  He  is  overworking  himself.  I  have 
been  away  for  a  little  while,  and  returning  find  the  weather 
stifling  and  Paget  working  as  if  it  were  midwinter.  This 
is  not  the  worst.  He  hears  rumors  of  fever  in  the  South, 
and  says  that  he  will  go  if  it  be  declared  epidemic.  I  think 
that  this  resolution  is  partly  due  to  his  being  run  down  and 
morbid.  Send  Claude  after  him.  When  you  see  him,  you 
will  forgive  my  interference. 

"  I  shall  fetch  him  myself,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
said.  "  It  will  have  more  weight,  I  think,  than 
your  going." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  Claude  answered,  folding 
the  letter  slowly.  "  What  nonsense,  to  go  South 
in  case  of  fever  !  These  very  good  people  are  so 
uncomfortable.  When  will  you  go?  " 

"  To-night.  I  shall  not  tell  Beatrice  or  anyone  ; 
I  am  simply  going  fora  day  on  business.  It  an 
noys  me.  As  you  say,  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
being  too  good." 

The  change  from  Newport  to  New  York  seemed 
dreadful  to  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster.  It  was  many 
years  since  she  had  spent  even  an  hour  in  the  city 
at  this  season,  and  she  felt  it  a  great  hardship. 

She  drove  first  to  the  down-town  mission  and 
left  a  note  for  John  ;  then,  taking  an  early  lunch 
at  a  restaurant,  went  to  the  house.  How  the  bell 
echoed  through  the  empty  place  ;  how  desolate 
it  seemed,  and  how  very  long  the  woman  took  to 
come!  Inside,  it  seemed  worse,  for  everything 
was  packed  up  and  dusty.  It  must  be  very 


JOHN  PA  GET.  271 

dreary  for  John,  she  thought.  The  woman 
opened  the  study  windows  and  asked  if  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  had  come  to  stay.  "Air  my  bedroom 
and  some  linen  ;  I  may  spend  the  night;  but  you 
need  not  cook  anything  for  me,  I  will  go  to  a 
restaurant."  The  woman  dismissed,  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  looked  about  her  while  she  took  off  her 
gloves  and  bonnet. 

The  table  seemed  not  to  have  been  touched 
since  John  had  left  it.  The  inkstand  was  un 
covered,  the  stampbox  open,  and  spread  out  on 
the  blotting  book  was  a  letter  in  Beatrice's  hand 
writing.  It  was  unmistakable.  Was  it  so  he  con 
quered  himself? 

She  folded  it  and  put  it  in  its  envelope ;  it 
would  hurt  him  to  find  that  he  had  left  it  open, 
and,  if  put  away,  he  would  at  least  be  uncertain 
about  it.  Why  had  he  not  striven  against 
Claude — could  there  be  anything  in  Claude's 
suggestion  of  former  ties?  Not  a  book  was  out 
of  place — not  a  magazine  or  newspaper  in  sight. 
Did  he  spend  his  time  beating  himself  down  with 
that  letter  as  an  instrument  of  torture?  This 
was  to  be  righteous  !  Would  she  ever  have  been 
righteous,  even  if  she  had  married  Carter  Wil 
ton — been  a  conscientious,  self-sacrificing,  devoted 
Christian  like  John  ?  A  clergyman's  wife,  over 
worked,  badly  dressed,  tired  out  !  Patching, 
turning,  drudging — an  upper  servant,  in  short, 
with  a  lot  of  children  at  her  heels.  Dreadful  ! 
She  would  never  have  known  how  painfuTanother 


272  JOHN  PA  GST. 

kind  of  life  could  be,  and  would  always  have 
deemed  herself  something  of  a  martyr.  It  was 
better  as  it  was ;  things  generally  were  better  as 
they  were — "might-have-beens  "  were  delusions. 
She  would  not  give  up  her  experience,  her  suffer 
ing,  for  anything;  for  that  would  be  to  give  up 
her  development.  Some  people  might  not  like 
the  thing  she  had  developed  into,  but  that  did  not 
hurt  her.  She  could  have  no  deeper  sensations 
now  than  annoyance,  or  perfect  comfort ;  any 
thing  more  poignant  she  was  incapable  of  feel 
ing.  "The  string  o'erstretched  breaks" — all  the 
strings  that  used  to  vibrate  to  acute  joy  or  sor 
row  had  snapped,  and  she  was  glad.  Acute  joy  ? 
There  was  one  verse  in  the  Psalms  that  seemed  to 
her  the  most  exquisite  description  of  joy: 

Then  were  we  like  to  them  that  dream  ; 
Then  was  our  mouth  filled  with  laughter,  and  our  tongue 
with  joy. 

Carter  had  read  it  to  her  long  ago — before  she 
knew  anything  but  him.  She  had  been  perfectly 
happy  once,  and  that  ought  to  satisfy  any  creature 
who  looked  about  with  intelligent  eyes.  She  had 
thought  over  every  possible  sorrow  that  could 
come  to  her,  and  there  was  not  anything  that 
could  bring  more  than  discomfort.  Physical  suf 
fering  might  come,  but  there  were  narcotics  that 
would  let  her  sleep  her  life  away,  and  she  would 
use  them.  The  thing  that  could  annoy  her  most 
would  be  the  dying  out  of  the  name  of  Paget,  and 


JOHN  FACET.  273 

that  did  not  seem  probable,  for  besides  John, 
Claude  had  declared  that  his  second  son  should 
take  the  name  of  Paget.  And  even  if  the  name 
should  die  :  what  then  ? 

She  would  try  to  persuade  John  back  to  New 
port  with  her,  and  avert  this  possible  unpleas 
antness  of  his  risking  his  life  in  the  fever.  He 
could  torture  himself  more  effectually  at  New 
port,  seeing  Claude  and  Beatrice  together.  She 
would  suggest  it.  According  to  John's  code, 
it  would  be  a  good  way  of  strengthening  his 
spiritual  muscles.  How  silly  humanity  was ! 
even  Claude  had  been  betrayed  into  exaggerated 
feeling.  She  wondered  what  he  would  do  if 
Beatrice  should  ever  turn  from  him.  It  was  not 
an  impossible  thing  ;  she  was  quite  capable  of 
throwing  over  all  the  wealth  and  happiness  for 
religious  scruples.  Under  such  circumstances 
Claude  would  be  a  study. 

She  heard  the  click  of  a  latchkey,  a  step  in 
the  hall,  and  rose  as  John  entered. 

"  Dear  Aunt  Claudia  !  How  nice  to  see  you  !  " 
And  he  kissed  her  more  than  once.  She  did  not 
move  from  the  circle  of  his  arm,  but  looking  up 
she  laid  her  hand  on  his  cheek. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Aunt  Claudia,  you  know  that  I  do  !  You 
know  that  I  look  up  to  you,  depend  on  you,  and 
think  you  altogether  lovely.  You  are  the  nearest 
thing  to  a  mother  that  I  have  ever  known.  Often 
I  have  wished  that  you  were  dependent  on  me  ; 


274  JOHN  PA  GET. 

as  it  is,  nobody  really  needs  me,  not  even  the 
slummites,  for  there  is  always  somebody  to  take 
one's  place." 

"  I  need  you,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said,  and 
there  was  a  tone  in  her  voice  that  John  had  never 
heard  since  her  first  recognition  of  him — a  ring 
of  somethinglike  despair.  "  I  have  come  for  you," 
she  went  on  ;  "  I  cannot  leave  you  here  any  longer. 
I  know  that  it  will  hurt  you" — looking  him 
straight  in  the  eyes — "  but  the  best  cure  for  a  burn 
is  to  hold  the  burnt  spot  close  to  the  fire." 

John  led  her  to  a  chair.  "  Perhaps  you  are 
right,"  he  said. 

"  We  will  pack  your  things,  then,  and  you  will 
come  home  with  me  to-night." 

"  Not  to-night.  There  are  two  people  dying 
down  in  a  stifling  tenement — a  blind,  deserted 
old  woman,  and  a  young  girl  dying  of  wrong  and 
neglect.  Both  are  afraid  to  die,  and  I  must  not 
leave  them.  When  they  are  gone,  I  will  come  to 
you.  But  you  have  not  told  me  yet  what  brought 
you  here?  " 

"  Martin  Kinsey  wrote  to  me  about  you." 

"And  you  came  entirely  on  my  account?" 

"  Perhaps.  Martin  wrote  that  there  was  a 
rumor  of  fever  in  the  South  ;  yellow  fever,  of 
course." 

"  Yes.     Did  Martin  tell  any  more  tales  ?  " 

"That  you  would  go  if  it  were  declared  epi 
demic." 

"  Of  course." 


JOHN  PAGET.  275 

"  I  see  no  '  of  course  '  in  it.  If  you  were  down 
there  as  a  clergyman  or  a  physician,  then  it  would 
be  your  duty;  but  you  have  positively  no  ties 
there,  and  I  cannot  see  how  it  is  your  duty  to  go 
any  more  that  it  is  mine." 

"  Except  to  humanity  at  large,  I  have  no  ties 
anywhere,  Aunt  Claudia;  so  that  I  am  the  one  of 
all  others  to  go.  But  there  is  no  epidemic  yet, 
so  we  will  not  discuss  it,  and  I  will  come  to  you 
as  soon  as  possible.  You  think  that  Beatrice 
and  Claude  are  doing  the  right  thing?" 

"  I  think  Beatrice  would  have  been  happier 
with  you.  Marjorie  does  not  agree  with  me  ; 
she  thinks  that  Claude  is  necessary  to  Beatrice's 
happiness." 

"  Then  they  will  be  happy  ;  my  only  fear  is  that 
the  girl  is  so  young  and  undeveloped,  and  one 
cannot  say  certainly  of  a  girl  of  her  temperament 
that  she  will  be  this  or  that.  Of  course,  with 
Claude  always  beside  her,  her  development  is  apt 
to  take  place  along  such  lines  as  he  lays  down  for 
her." 

"Claude  is  a  selfish  man,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuy- 
ster  said,  "and  seeing  him  with  Beatrice, I  realize 
that  he  has  never  really  cared  for  any  creature  be 
fore.  He  really  loves  Beatrice,  however,  and  it  is 
doing  him  good.  Save  for  creature  comforts, 
Claude  has  been  absolutely  careless  all  his  life, 
and  until  now  he  has  never  wanted  anything  ex 
cept  what  money  could  buy.  I  half  way  wish 
that  he  could  be  deprived  of  Beatrice." 


*7&  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"Aunt  Claudia!" 

"I  mean  it.  It  is  a  wonderful  revelation  to 
people  such  as  we  are,  to  find  how  powerless 
money  is  to  procure  the  realities.  Life  would  be 
a  new  thing  to  Claude.  The  effect  would  be 
curious." 

"  And  you  would  study  him  in  his  pain  ?  " 

"  What  else  have  I  to  do  in  life  save  study  my 
fellows  and  embroider  tea-cloths  ?  " 

"  And  the  world  so  full  of  sorrow  and  sin  !  " 

"  Would  you  send  a  leper  out  as  a  sick  nurse  ? 
I  am  absolutely  selfish,  and  selfishness  is  the  very 
germ  and  root  of  sin." 

"  Is  your  religion  nothing  to  you  ?" 

''What  is  my  religion?  That  it  is  not  the 
same  as  yours  is  the  only  thing  I  am  sure 
of." 

"I  do  not  believe  you." 

•'  It  is  true,  nevertheless." 

"  Don't  say  that !  I  pray  that  you  will  not  talk 
in  that  way ;  you  may  convince  yourself  in  time. 
Won't  you  rouse  yourself — do  something  for  some 
body  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  do  not  want  to.     For  many 

years  I  have  been  striving  to  reach  what  Claude 

calls   the   height  of  civilization,  which  is  to   be 

/absolutely   without    feeling.     I  can    still  be  dis- 

[turbed  by  an  ill-fitting  dress   or  a  badly  served 

dinner,  but  not  much." 

John  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  looking 
out  for  a  moment.  "If  this  is  so,"  he  said  at  last, 


JOtttf  FACET.  a  ?  7 

<l  why  should  you  care  if  I  work  myself  to  death, 
or  die  of  fever  in  the  South  ?  " 

"  You  are  the  last  of  the  Pagets,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  answered. 

"  You  asked  me  a  moment  ago  if  I  loved  you/' 
turning  on  her  quickly  ;  "  what  did  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Exactly  what  I  said.  I  want  you  to  love  me, 
for  then  you  will  fulfill  my  wishes.  I  want  you 
to  marry  Marjorie  Van  Kuyster  and  re-establish 
the  family." 

John  turned  again  to  the  window,  a  frown  on 
his  brow.  He  felt  baffled,  hurt.  To  fight  this 
worldliness  and  unbelief  was  like  fighting  shad 
ows.  Life  seemed  one  great  negation.  The 
poor  wretches  down  in  the  slums  were  higher 
than  this.  He  would  hate  these  people  presently  ; 
this  superiority  to  everything  genuine  was  mad 
dening.  Claude  was  right  about  his  world;  it 
was  cheerfully  cold  and  critical — almost  bloodless. 
If  these  were  the  results  of  civilization,  he  would 
rather  be  a  border  barbarian. 

"  Marjorie  is  above  the  average  in  many  ways," 
Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  continued,  "  and  has  sense 
enough  to-  know  that  her  happiness  will  be  in 
throwing  herself  into  your  work.  She  has  not 
crystallized  yet ;  she  still  has  enthusiasms  and  im 
pulses,  but  she  can  control  them,  which  is  an 
added  charm.  I  wish  you  would  think  of  it." 

John  turned  from  the  window  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him.  "  I  scarcely  think  that  you 


27^  JOHN  PAGET. 

have  the  right  to  use  Miss  Van  Kuyster  s  name 
in  this  way,"  he  said  gravely.  "  I  admire  her  ex 
tremely,  but  she  has  done  nothing  to  give  you 
the  right  to  speak  as  if  she  were  simply  waiting 
for  a  proposal  from  me." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  leaned  back  with  a  smile 
creeping  about  her  lips,  and  a  look  of  amusement 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Miss  Van  Kuyster  has  been  kind  and  pleasant 
to  me,"  John  went  on.  "  She  has  been  interested 
in  my  work,  but  I  understood  perfectly  that  it 
was  only  because  it  was  a  new  sensation.  If  you 
had  been  with  us  on  our  expeditions,  you  would 
have  understood  this  too  ;  and  you  must  excuse 
me,  but  I  cannot  permit  you  to  speak  of  Miss 
Van  Kuyster  in  this  way." 

"  My  dear  John,  you  are  a  survival,  and  you 
must  excuse  my  being  amused.  I  had  no  idea 
of  answering  for  Marjorie,  nor  of  suggesting  that 
she  had  said  'snap  '  before  you  had  said  '  snip.' 
Marjorie,  however,  is  a  child  of  this  world,  and, 
if  she  ever  had  the  youthful,  romantic  notions 
of  love  has  outlived  them.  In  short,  she  is  ra 
tional.  You  are  handsome,  you  have  position  and 
some  money.  Marjorie  has  position  and  a  great 
deal  of  money.  All  these  things  weigh  with  a 
rational  being,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  if  you 
have  sense  enough  to  ask  her,  she  will  have  sense 
enough  to  accept  you,  and  make  you  very  happy." 

John  stopped  in  front  of  her.  "  Unless  you 
withdraw  all  this,  Aunt  Claudia,"  he  said,  "  I 


JOHN  PA  GET.  279 

cannot  come  to  Newport  while  Miss  Van  Kuy- 
ster  is  there." 

"  My  dear  John  !  " 

"  I  am  in  earnest." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  looked  up  at  him  a  moment. 
"  I  withdraw  it  all,  my  dear.  Please  consider  it 
all  unsaid,  and  the  thought  shall  never  cross  my 
mind  again.  In  return,  you  must  promise  that 
as  soon  as  your  inconvenient  paupers  die  you 
will  come  down.  You  really  look  ill ;  and  if  you 
have  any  idea  of  indulging  in  a  Southern  epidemic 
you  had  better  get  a  little  strength  in  order  to 
die  comfortably.  Now,  where  shall  we  go  for 
dinner?" 

The  return  to  Newport  was  very  flat  to  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster,  and  she  felt  irritated  with  herself 
because  she  had  indulged  in  an  impulse.  She 
had  taken  a  tiresome  journey,  and  spent  a  hot 
day  in  the  city  for  nothing,  for  John  would  have 
come  eventually  with  only  a  letter  for  persuasion. 
To  add  to  her  annoyance,  she  found  that  during 
her  absence  a  disagreement  had  arisen  between 
Claude  and  Miss  Grigsby,  the  governess,  which 
she  was  expected  to  arbitrate. 

"  Miss  Grigsby  is  meddlesome,"  Claude  said, 
having  sought  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  in  the  sacred 
solitude  of  her  dressing  room.  "  I  would  send 
her  off  to-morrow  but  for  Beatrice." 

"  Does  Beatrice  object  ?" 

"  I  have  said  nothing  to  her  about  it;  if  I  did 


280  JOHN  FACET. 

she  might  ask  inconvenient  questions.  She  is 
actually  fond  of  the  old  person." 

"  I  am  a  little  in  the  dark,"  Mrs.  Van  Ktiyster 
said.  "  What  has  Miss  Grigsby  done  ?  " 

"  Well,  Miss  Grigsby  sought  a  private  interview 
with  me  yesterday,  and  had  the  impertinence  to 
tell  me  that  I  was  undermining  Miss  Wilton's 
Christian  faith,  and  that  as  a  Christian  she  thought 
it  her  duty  to  remonstrate." 

"  And  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  If  I  am,  it  is  none  of  her  business. 

"  She  will  not  agree  with  you  there." 

"  She  does  not  agree  with  me  there.  When  I 
told  her  that  seeing  that  Beatrice's  future  be 
longed  to  me,  I  had  a  right  to  train  her  to  suit 
myself,  she  answered  coolly  that  before  Beatrice 
was  my  wife  she  was  an  immortal  soul  for  whom 
she  herself  was  in  part  responsible,  and  that  she 
would  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  destroy  my  in 
fluence.  It  is  no  laughing  matter,"  he  went  on 
more  crossly,  seeing  a  smile  on  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's 
lips,"  and  I  cannot  see  how  it  amuses  you." 

"  My  dear  Claude,  you  amuse  me.  You  have 
always  posed  as  one  who  could  not  be  moved  or 
disturbed  by  any  turn  of  fate,  and  here,  at  the  very 
first  opposition  of  your  whole  life,  you  are  totally 
routed.  It  is  rather  unique,  too,  that  the  first  per 
son  who  tries  to  teach  you  the  '  uses  of  adversity  ' 
should  be  an  insignificant,  poverty-stricken  little 
old  woman,  without  influence  anywhere  in  the 
world, " 


JOHN  PA  GET.  281 

"  I  am  glad  that  I  furnish  you  entertainment." 
Claude  answered,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"though  in  seeking  you  I  had  no  such  amiable 
intention.  I  want  you  to  dismiss  Miss  Grigsby. " 

"  I  cannot  without  just  cause  and  due  warning." 

"  Pay  her  a  quarter's  salary,  and  let  her  go." 

"  You  have  yet  to  learn,  Claude,  that  money  is 
not  all-powerful.  Miss  Grigsby  is  a  lady,  and  be 
cause  of  her  poverty  is  more  sensitively  proud 
than  you  are.  She  would  not  accept  it." 

Claude  walked  up  and  down  the  room  im 
patiently. 

''And  surely,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  went  on,  "you 
can  hold  your  own  against  her  for  the  little  while 
we  are  going  to  be  here?" 

"  If  she  should  tell  Beatrice  that  I  am  what  she 
calls  an  infidel,  I  could  not  hold  my  own  for  a 
moment  unless  I  lied." 

"Well?" 

"  I  cannot  lie." 

"  To  one  who  professes  to  hold  everything  in 
solution,  truth  must  be  a  fluid  where  lines  cannot 
be  drawn,  and  to  which  bonds  cannot  be  set." 

"  That  is  nonsense  !  " 

"On  the  contrary,  it  is  a  logical  deduction. 
Remember  that  to  assume  the  truth  of  your  own 
existence  even,  is  to  plunge  yourself  into  endless 
difficulties;  so  to  make  two  assumptions,  first 
that  Claude  Van  Kuyster  is,  and  further,  is  an 
agnostic,  is  rash  in  the  extreme.  I  think  that  in 
stead  of  losing  my  temper  with  Miss  Grigsby,  I 


282  JOHN  FACET. 

would  explain  my  difficulties  to  her,  and  ask  her 
to  convert  me." 

"  What  has  become  of  your  morality  ?  " 

"I  am  logical,  and  keep  that  in  solution  too; 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  have  lost  your  head 
in  this  matter  ;  and  for  a  man  who  believes  in 
nothing  but  intellect — who  relegates  all  emotions, 
both  spiritual  and  moral,  to  the  domain  of  the 
liver — for  such  a  man  to  lose  his  head  is  ruin." 

"You  will  not  dismiss  her,  then?" 

"  I  cannot,  any  more  than  you  can  lie." 

Here  the  maid  brought  a  request  from  Miss 
Grisby  for  an  interview. 

Lifting  a  porttire,  Claude  stepped  into  the 
next  room,  while  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  smiled  ;  then 
she  sighed  and  said,  "  Bring  her  in,  and  as  soon 
as  she  is  gone,  Christine,  bring  me  a  cup  of  tea. 
Tell  Johnson  I  want  the  carriage  at,  half  after  five. 
Ask  Miss  Van  Kuyster  and  Miss  Wilton  to  drive 
with  me  if  they  have  no  other  plans." 

Then  Miss  Grigsby  came  in. 

"  Please  find  yourself  a  comfortable  chair,  Miss 
Grigsby,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said,  looking  about 
as  if  comfortable  chairs  were  rare. 

"  Thank  you,  madam" — and  Miss  Grigsby  took 
her  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  straightest  chair  she 
could  find. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  me  about  anything  impor 
tant?  "  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  went  on.  "  Has  Bea 
trice  been  rebelling  ?  " 

"  I  consider  it  very  important,  Mrs.  Van  Kuy- 


JOHN  FACET.  283 

ster, it  concerns  Miss  Wilton  vitally;  and  as  I  am 
partially  responsible  for  her  as  her  governess,  I 
hold  it  my  duty  to  speak  to  you,  her  guardian, 
on  this  subject.  I  do  not  know  that  you  realize 
it,  but  Mr.  Van  Kuysteris  a  confirmed  skeptic  " — 
pausing  expectantly. 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  bowed  slightly. 

"And  is  undermining,  systematically,  Miss 
Wilton's  faith." 

"You  think  that  Miss  Wilton  is  giving  up  her 
belief  consciously?" 

"  Not  consciously ;  Mr.  Van  Kuyster's  attacks 
are  too  subtle  for  her  to  understand  the  force  of 
them ;  but  I  see  the  leaven  working,  and  it  is  a 
cruel  sin,"  her  voice  trembling. 

"  You  know,  I  suppose,  that  with  my  free  con 
sent  Miss  Wilton  is  to  marry  Mr.  Van  Kuy 
ster  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madam." 

"  And  that  a  woman  is  very  apt  to  think  with 
her  husband?  If  Miss  Wilton  falls  in  with  his 
views  unconsciously,  it  will  not  be  sin  for  her." 

"  With  all  due  respect,  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster, 
permit  me  to  say  that  I  cannot  comprehend 
your  attitude  in  this  matter  " — and  Miss  Grigsby's 
faded  eyes  were  flashing. 

"  My  experience,  Miss  Grigsby,  has  taught  me 
that  it  is  dangerous  to  dogmatize — that  there  is 
generally  another  view  of  everything  than  the 
view  we  may  take.  In  this  case  there  are  many 
things  to  be  considered.  Miss  Wilton  loves  Mr, 


284  JOHN  FACET. 

Van  Kuyster,  and  I  believe  that  her  happiness  de 
pends  very  much  on  her  spending  her  life  with 
him.  Point  out  to  her  his  skepticism,  and  you 
risk  all  her  happiness  ;  leave  her  alone,  and  she 
will  probably  never  find  it  out.  And  grant  that 
she  drifts  into  his  mode  of  thought,  she  will  do  it 
unconsciously,  and  as  I  have  just  said,  that  will 
not  be  sin  to  her." 

"  And  you  feel  no  responsibility  for  yourself 
in  this,  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster?  " 

"  It  is  not  often  I  permit  myself  to  be  ques 
tioned  as  to  my  feelings,  Miss  Grigsby,  but  in  this 
case  I  will  answer  you  that  I  do  not  feel  very 
much  about  it  in  any  way.  Further,  I  think  that 
a  great  deal  of  what  Christians  call  conscientious 
remonstrance,  is  in  common  parlance,  meddling; 
in  ecclesiastical  language  it  might  be  called 
'  works  of  supererogation.'  I  do  not  think  that 
I  shall  interfere — nor  shall  I  permit  you  to  inter 
fere." 

Miss  Grigsby  rose,  a  dull  color  creeping  up  her 
withered  cheeks.  "  I  am  sorry  that  I  disturbed 
you,  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster,"  she  said,  "and  as  I  will 
not  mention  the  subject  to  you  again,  I  consider 
it  my  duty  to  warn  you  of  my  intentions.  I  can 
not  permit  my  conscience  to  be  stifled.  I  can 
not  think  for  one  moment  that  any  happiness 
which  Miss  Wilton  may  enjoy  as  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
can  compare  in  value  to  the  least  spiritual  loss. 
She  has  a  pure  and  lovely  spirit — she  has  a  beau 
tiful  childlike  faith — she  is  as  a  little  child,  and 


JOHN  PA  GET.  285 

so,  fit  for  the  kingdom.  I  am  always  remember 
ing  the  words  of  the  Master,  '  Whoso  shall  of 
fend  one  of  these  little  ones  which  believe  in  me, 
it  were  better  that  a  millstone  were  hanged  about 
his  neck,  and  he  were  drowned  in  the  depths  of 
the  sea.'  As  a  Christian  I  must  interfere.  I  can 
not  see  a  soul  wrecked,  even  unconsciously,  and 
not  put  out  a  hand  to  save  it.  The  sin  of  the 
loss  would  be  mine,  mine  !  " — her  voice  breaking, 
and  her  eyes  filling  with  tears — "and  I  love  the 
child." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  looked  away  out  to  sea.  The 
little  old  woman  in  her  straight  black  frock  was 
touching  the  sublime.  What  a  power  it  gave  one 
to  believe  absolutely  in  anything  !  How  could 
this  insignificant  person  dare  to  run  the  risk  of 
wrecking  two  lives. 

"  I  should  scarcely  value  the  love  that  would 
wreck  my  life  for  me,"  she  said,  turning  her  face 
again  to  Miss  Grigsby's. 

"  What  she  thinks  of  me,  or  feels  towads  me 
must  not  matter,  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster.  Nothing 
should  come  between  a  Christian  and  his  duty." 

"  And  will  you  go  to  the  child  and  tell  her  this 
thing  that  I  warn  you  will  break  her  heart — can 
you  do  this  ?  Miss  Wilton  is  extremely  frail,  and 
the  consequences  may  be  serious." 

The  little  lady  laid  her  hand  that  was  like  a 
bird's  claw,  on  the  back  of  a  chair — she  was 
trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  I  cannot  say  how  I  will  do  it,"  she  answered, 


286  JOHN  FACET. 

"and  I  cannot  at  all  weigh  the  suffering  that  it 
will  cause  me,  but  it  must  be  done.  I  pray  that 
I  will  be  guided.  I  beg  that  you  will  pardon  my 
intrusion,  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster,  and  will  now  accept 
my  thanks  for  the  consideration  with  which  I 
have  been  treated  in  your  house.  I  say  this  now, 
for  I  may  feel  it  my  duty  to  leave  your  service — 
of  that,  however,  I  will  give  you  due  warning.  I 
bid  you  good-afternoon."  Near  the  door  she 
paused.  "  I  have  forgotten  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
warned  Mr.  Van  Kuyster,  and  that  I  may  deter- 
nine  to  appeal  to  Mr.  Paget — though  I  have  no 
wish  to  put  the  onus  of  this  interference  on  any 
one  else.  But  I  feel  sure  that  Mr.  Paget  will  act 
entirely  for  Miss  Wilton's  best  interests — her 
spiritual  interests." 

"  That  will  be  to  make  things  very  disagreeable, 
Miss  Grigsby.  Mr.  Paget  is  Mr.  Van  Kuyster's 
brother,  and  to  make  strife  between  brothers 
would  not  be  true  Christianity,  would  it  ?  " 

"'I  came  not  to  bring  peace,  but  a  sword/" 
the  little  woman  quoted  sadly,  then  shut  the 
door. 

In  a  moment  Claude  entered  from  the  next 
room,  followed  by  Christine  and  the  tea-tray. 
While  the  table  was  being  arranged  near  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster's  chair,  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  impatiently. 

"  You  heard  it  all,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said  when 
the  servant  was  gone. 

"  Of  course." 


JOHN  PA  GET.    ,  287 

"  And  you  realize  that  to  dismiss  her  would  be 
only  to  precipitate  matters?" 

"  Yes." 

"Is  not  discretion  the  better  part  of  valor? 
Why  not  go  to  Miss  Grigsby  and  assure  her  that 
you  have  no  intention  of  tampering  with  Bea 
trice's  faith?  I  have  told  you  many  times  that  it 
will  be  useless  for  you  to  try  to  make  Beatrice  as 
you  are.  Why  not  compromise,  and  avoid  this 
disagreeable  fracas,  that  may  possibly  work  much 
ill  to  you  both?  I  think  Miss  Grigsby  would  be 
lieve  you  if  you  promised." 

Claude  stirred  his  tea  sullenly.  "  I  should 
much  prefer  killing  the  little  viper,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  an  infinite  respect  for  Miss  Grigsby," 
Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  answered.  "  As  she  stood 
there  she  looked  a  relentless  little  Fate,  ready  to 
clip  the  thread  of  any  number  of  lives." 

"  Damn  her  !  " 

"  My  dear  Claude,  do  not  descend  so  low  as  to 
fight  the  inevitable,  and  to  use  bad  language  ; 
recover  your  temper  and  judgment,  and  compro 
mise.  Take  a  little  run  off  somewhere,  and  think 
it  over.  If  you  are  gone,  Miss  Grigsby  will  let 
matters  rest  for  a  little  while.  Think  of  the  com 
plication  if  she  rouses  John.  It  would  be  a  curi 
ous  study." 

"  You  would  make  a  study  of  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  smiled  as  she  remembered 
that  she  had  aroused  John  on  this  same  point,  and 
she  answered  in  the  same  words :  "  What  else 


288  JOHN  PA  GET. 

have  I  to  do  in  life  save  to  study  my  fellows  and 
embroider  tea-cloths ! " 

;    "  Good  God  !  when  a  woman  lets  go,  how  far 
out  she  swings!  " 

"Quite  true;  it  is  all  or  nothing.  The  femi 
nine  nature  is  essentially  concrete  ;  drive  it  to  the 
abstract,  and  it  is  lost.  To  keep  its  balance  it 
must  hold  on  to  something.  I  have,  as  you  say, 
let  go.  Life  had  to  beat  on  my  hands  a  long  time 
before  they  loosed  their  hold.  You  helped  to  do 
it,  and  dealt  your  strokes  most  skillfully." 

"  And  you  hate  me  for  it  ?  " 

"No  ;  it  is  you  who  seem  to  disapprove  of  me. 
You  see  you  have  learned  to  love  of  late,  and  that 
changes  every  relation  in  life,  and  throws  a  new 
light  on  every  person,  and  thing,  and  thought." 

Claude  looked  at  her  curiously,  sipping  his  tea 
slowly  from  the  spoon.  "  Your  life  must  have 
been  slow  torture,"  he  said,  dropping  the  spoon 
in  the  saucer,  "and  I  have  added  to  it — I  see  it 
now." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  laughed.  "  Tears  and  spilled 
milk  are  an  abortive  mixture,"  she  said,  "and  as 
I  am  thoroughly  comfortable  on  my  desert  island 
of  life,  you  need  not  worry  yourself  with  posthu 
mous  sympathy.  Love  is  making  you  maudlin." 

Claude  rose.  "  I  will  take  your  advice,"  he 
said,  "  and  go  away  for  a  few  days."  Then  he  left 
the  room. 


XXI. 

"Oh,  the  Jew  findeth  scholars!  certain  slaves 
Who  touched  on  this  same  isle  preached  him  and  Christ ; 
And  (as  I  gathered  from  a  bystander) 
Their  doctrine  could  be  held  by  no  sane  man." 

LITTLE  Miss  Grigsby's  frame  of  mind  was  not 
enviable.  She  had  never  trusted  Claude,  and 
had  combated  his  influence  from  the  first,  hoping 
that  something  would  occur  to  divert  him  from 
his  fancy  for  Beatrice.  To  her  dismay,  however, 
she  saw  Claude's  influence  growing,  then  was 
asked  to  give  her  best  wishes  for  the  engagement. 
Day  by  day  she  seemed  to  see  the  girl  drifting 
further  and  further  away  from  the  teachings  of 
her  childhood,  and  becoming  more  and  more 
absorbed  in  the  life  about  her.  Miss  Grigsby 
would  have  deemed  herself  presumptuous  if  she 
had  called  the  life  of  this  favored  class  pointless. 
Since  it  was  permitted,  it  must  be  of  some  use  in 
the  universal  plan  ;  but  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
say  that  it  was  far  from  being  a  high  life. 

Claude  had  said  to  her  one  day :  "  You  would 
not  treat  us  with  so  much  contempt,  Miss  Grigsby, 
if  you  would  reflect  that  there  must  be  results  as 
well  as  purposes — we  are  a  result  ;  just  as  the 
foam  on  top  the  wave  is  a  result.  You  could 


29°  JOHN  PA  GET. 

not  have  the  foam  without  the  wave,  nor  the  wave 
without  the  foam.  Be  a  little  more  tolerant." 
He  was  so  plausible  and  handsome,  he  was  so 
courteous,  that  it  was  a  great  temptation  to  let 
things  be.  Who  could  say  that  it  was  her  busi 
ness  to  interfere  ?  Only  her  own  conscience,  which 
through  all  her  straitened  life  she  had  obeyed 
without  question.  No  pain  to  herself  could  have 
made  her  hesitate  for  a  moment ;  but  before  she 
brought  pain  on  others,  she  must  weigh  matters 
well.  Her  wrestlings  had  ended  in  her  appeal 
to  Claude,  which  he  treated  as  an  impertinence. 
She  then  went  to  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster,  and  retreat 
ing  baffled,  she  cast  about  for  some  better  plan. 
John  Paget  was  her  last  hope,  save  the  girl  her 
self.  He  was  a  clergyman,  and  from  what  she 
could  gather,  was  considered  by  this  family  to 
be  absurdly  strict,  and  morbidly  conscientious. 
After  a  fashion  he  was  Beatrice's  guardian,  and  an 
appeal  to  him  might  result  in  something  defi 
nite. 

She  lay  awake  most  of  the  night  after  her  inter 
view  with  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster,  trying  to  settle  on 
some  plan.  That  John  was  coming  down  later, 
she  had  heard  them  say.  Should  she  wait,  or 
should  she  write  ?  And  morning  came  .before 
she  had  reached  any  decision. 

Early  in  the  day,  Beatrice  came  to  her  to  say 
that  as  Claude  was  leaving  in  the  afternoon  to  be 
gone  some  time,  she  would  not  have  any  lessons 
at  all,  but  drive  with  him  instead. 


JOHN  FACET.  29! 

"  Will  Mr.  Paget  be  here  soon  ?  "  Miss  Grigsby 
asked. 

"  I  hope  so,"  the  girl  answered  ;  "  he  is  just 
waiting  for  an  old  pauper  woman  to  die." 

Miss  Grigsby  gave  a  little  shiver;  she  was  an 
old  pauper  woman  herself.  "  He  must  be  a 
noble  man,"  she  said,  "  to  wait  to  help  an  old 
pauper." 

"  Noble?"  the  girl  repeated,  her  face  lighting 
up.  "  No  one  can  know  how  noble  he  is." 

"  You  love  him  very  much  ?  " 

"  As  one  does  a  saint." 

"  And  would  heed  his  advice  ?  " 

"  I  would  heed  his  least  look.  But  you  shall 
know  him  when  he  comes."  Then  she  went 
away. 

Claude's  absence,  and  the  hope  of  John's  com 
ing,  was  a  reprieve  to  Miss  Grigsby,  and  she 
composed  herself  for  a  little  rest. 

When  Claude  went  away  that  day  he  was 
very  far  from  a  compromise,  and  his  last  word 
with  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  was  that  he  saw  no 
reason  against  an  immediate  marriage  ;  and  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  answered  wisely  that  she  would 
think  about  it. 

"  Cannot  you  take  a  little  tour,  Marjorie  ?  " 
she  said  later,  "  and  persuade  Miss  Grigsby  to 
go  as  your  companion  ?  " 

"  You  wish  to  get  rid  of  her,  Cousin?  " 

"  Claude  does." 

"Claude  is  afraid  of  her,  is  he?"     Marjorie 


292  JOHN  PAGET. 

asked.  "  He  may  well  be  ;  she  is  keen  and  ob 
stinate,  and  I  am  afraid  that  under  the  circum 
stances  nothing  will  persuade  her  away.  I  will 
try,  however." 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word,  and,  telling  Miss 
Grigsby  that  she  had  given  her  own  companion 
holiday  for  the  summer,  asked  her  to  go  with 
her  to  Mount  Desert  for  a  little  while. 

Miss  Grigsby  gave  her  a  keen  look,  which 
Marjorie  answered  by  saying: 

"  I  will  be  willing  to  give  you  whatever  you 
may  think  it  worth  to  you." 

A  dull  color  crept  into  Miss  Grigsby's  face. 
"  I  do  not  doubt  that  for  a  moment, "  she  said, 
'•'  but  there  are  other  considerations.  Miss 
Wilton." 

"  Of  course  I  have  not  asked  you  without  my 
cousin's  knowledge,  "  Marjorie  answered,  "  and 
she  is  quite  willing." 

An  obstinate  look  came  over  Miss  Grigsby's 
face.  "  My  own  conscience  is  involved,  "  she  said. 
"  Perhaps  you  have  not  heard,  Miss  Van  Kuyster, 
that  I  have  appealed  against  Mr.  Van  Kuyster's 
influence  over  Miss  Wilton." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  it,  and  considered  your  duty 
in  the  matter  done.  Besides  Claude  does  not  in 
tend  to  interfere  with  her  faith." 

"  He  has  done  it  already." 

"  If  this  is  so,  you  have  warned  him." 

"  He  laughed  me  to  scorn." 

"  Only  because  no  man  likes  to  seem  to  take 


JOHN  PAGET.  293 

advice,  especially  from  a  woman  ;  besides,  he  was 
angry." 

"  I  think  he  was  determined,  too." 

Marjorie  looked  out  of  the  window  for  a 
moment.  Miss  Grigsby  was  irritating.  She 
could  understand  perfectly  how  she  had  worked 
Claude  into  a  rage. 

After  a  moment,  Marjorie  went  on  : 

"  You  know  that  Mr.  Paget  is  perfectly  aware 
of  Mr.  Van  Kuyster's  religious  position,  Miss 
Grigsby,  and  yet  gave  his  free  consent  to  the 
marriage.  Surely  it  is  more  his  affair  than 
yours?  " 

"  I  cannot  believe  that  Mr.  Paget  realizes  the 
state  of  things." 

"  But  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  does." 

"  She  seems  to  be  of  her  son's  way  of  thinking." 

Marjorie  rose.  "  If  you  will  not  go,  you  will 
not,"  she  said  coldly.  "  I  thought  that  I  was  giv 
ing  you  an  opportunity  of  ending  your  engagement 
here  pleasantly,  and  possibly  of  making  another 
among  my  friends  at  Mount  Desert." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Miss  Van  Kuyster  ;  my 
engagement  here  can  be  ended  any  day  that 
suits  my  employers,  and — I  have  saved  a  little 
money." 

"  You  think  I  meant  to  bribe  you?"  Marjorie 
said  hotly.  "  I  assure  you  I  had  not  such  a  thought. 
I  appreciate  your  scruples,  and  feel  very  sorry  for 
all  parties.  My  disinterested  advice  is  that  you 
come  with  me,  and  leave  things  to  Mr.  Paget." 


294  JOfttf  PA  GET. 


Miss  Grigsby  held  out  her  hand.  "  Please 
shake  hands  with  me,  Miss  Van  Kuyster,  and  for 
give  my  momentary  misjudgment.  If  you  will  al 
low  me,  I  will  give  you  my  answer  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  have  made  a  bad  move," 
Marjorie  said,  when  a  little  later  she  and  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  drove  down  to  the  shops  to  match 
some  embroidery  silks. 

"  I  do  not  'think  so,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  an 
swered.  "  I  am  sure  she  will  go  with  you." 

"  When  does  Claude  return  ?  " 

"  Not  for  a  week  or  ten  days,  I  hope.  I 
wish  he  had  compromised  with  Miss  Grigsby 
before  he  left,  but  she  had  irritated  him  too 
much." 

"  Being  thwarted  is  a  new  sensation  to  Claude. 
How  strange  it  is  that  insignificant  little  Miss 
Grigsby  should  grow  to  so  great  importance." 

"  It  is  the  strength  of  fanaticism  ;  I  have  met 
it  before.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  John  has  a  great 
deal  of  it,  and  I  want  very  much  to  prevent  a 
meeting  between  him  and  Miss  Grigsby.  We 
stand  some  chance  of  managing  either  one  alone, 
but  allied,  I  do  not  know  what  may  not  happen. 
When  will  you  leave  if  Miss  Grigsby  agrees  to  go 
with  you  ?  " 

"  By  Friday,  certainly.  This  is  Tuesday  ;  won't 
that  do?" 

"  It  must  do.  I  cannot  understand,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  went  on,  "  why  I  have  permitted  myself 


JOHN  PA  GET.  295 

to  become  involved  in  this  affair.  I  suppose  be 
cause  there  is  an  element  of  intrigue  in  it." 

"  And  because  you  love  them  a  little  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  about  that.  Claude  has 
never  cared  for  my  love,  Beatrice  has  never  got 
further  than  my  pity — and  it  would  not  be  safe  to 
love  John;  he  would  be  always  allowing  his  duty 
to  trample  on  me,  and  expect  me  to  enjoy  it. 
No  constitution  could  stand  that,  you  know.  I 
believe  you  are  the  best  thing  in  my  world, 
Marjorie  ;  you  are  satisfied  to  give  and  accept  a 
rational  affection." 

Marjorie  laughed.  "  It  is  the  best  I  can  get," 
she  said,  "I  must  be  satisfied." 

"  It  is  the  best  that  anyone  can  get,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  answered  ;  "  desperation  does  riot  pay." 

After  a  moment,  Marjorie  said  :  "  Do  you 
know,  I  think  it  will  be  wiser  for  me  to  tell  Miss 
Grigsby  the  state  of  things  between  Claude  and 
Mr.  Paget :  she  might  write  to  Mr.  Paget." 

"  Scarcely,  Marjorie  ;  she  would  not  presume." 

"  There  can  be  no  presumption  in  writing  to  a 
clergyman,  you  know,  and  she  is  very  determined 
about  this  thing.  I  think  I  will  tell  her  on  my 
own  responsibilty  ;  it  will  at  least  save  Mr.  Paget 
from  a  painful  position.  If  she  writes  to  him,  he 
can  scarcely  help  investigating,  and  loving  Bea 
trice  as  he  does,  how  will  it  look  for  him  to  inter 
fere  ?  It  would  be  agony  to  him." 

"  Doubtless  ;  but  in  saving  John,  you  expose 
Beatrice.  Miss  Grigsby  has  already  appealed  to 


296  JOHN  FACET. 

me  and  to  Claude.  If  you  tell  her  not  to  go  to 
John,  the  only  person  left  is  Beatrice.  If  Beatrice 
only  had  a  little  strength  of  mind — just  enough 
to  pass  the  thing  over — there  would  be  no  trouble. 
But  her  training  and  her  blood  are  against  it.  I 
am  afraid  that,  at  the  first  intimation,  she  will 
look  on  Claude  as  a  lost  soul." 

"  Claude's  soul  is  dead  to  the  higher  things," 
Marjorie  answered,  "  so  is  yours — and  mine.  Do 
you  remember  reading  how  Darwin  lost  all  his 
love  and  appreciation  for  poetry?  That  was  a 
sort  of  spiritual  death.  The  law  is  inevitable — 
that  which  is  not  cultivated  and  used,  dies." 

"  You  will  soon  induce  an  attack  of  that  pre- 
existent  rheumatism  of  which  I  told  you  the  other 
day,  Marjie;  pray  change  the  subject,  and  tell 
Miss  Grigsby  anything  you  please." 

Reaching  home,  Marjorie  went  straight  to  Miss 
Grigsby's  room,  and  found  her  writing. 

"  In  speaking  to  you  about  Miss  Wilton," 
Marjorie  began  at  once,  "  I  suggested  that  you 
shouldf  leave  the  matter  to  Mr.  Paget.  Thinking 
it  over,  I  became  afraid  that  you  might  have 
taken  my  words  to  mean  that  you  should  tell 
Mr.  Paget — I  did  not  mean  that." 

"  I  am  writing  to  Mr.  Paget  now,"  Miss  Grigsby 
answered. 

"  Then  I  am  just  in  time.  I  want  to  tell  you 
that  Mr.  Paget  is  much  more  in  love  with  Beatrice 
than  Mr.  Van  Kuyster  is,  and  that  this  is  known 
to  everyone  except  Beatrice.  If  you  write  to 


JOHN  PA  GET.  297 

him  and  compel  him  to  interfere,  you  will  give 
him  untold  pain.  You  will  not  want  to  do  this  ?" 

Miss  Grigsby  was  silent. 

"  Have  you  ever  loved  anyone,  Miss  Grigsby  ? 
Can  you  realize  for  one  moment  the  dreadful 
position  of  having  to  break  the  heart  of  the 
creature  you  love  best  in  the  world  ?  One  would 
far  rather  break  one's  own  heart.  And  yet  this 
is  what  you  may  drive  Mr.  Paget  into  doing." 
Again  Miss  Grigsby  made  no  answer. 

"  Mr.  Paget  will  not  dare  to  comfort  the  child  ; 
he  cannot  take  her  away,  he  cannot  avoid  the 
enmity  of  his  brother.  Think  of  all  this  pain  you 
will  make  him  suffer." 

"Someone  must  suffer  it." 

"If  Claude  should  promise  you  that  he  would 
not  influence  Beatrice  ?" 

"  I  could  not  believe  him." 

"  Miss  Grigsby  !  " 

"  I  do  not  mean  that  Mr.  Van  Kuyster  would 
break  his  word  willfully,  for  I  believe  the  only 
creed  he  has  is  that  a  gentleman  cannot  lie  nor 
steal — I  have  heard  him  say  so  ;  but  I  mean  that 
he  is  so  absolutely  without  faith  of  any  kind  that 
it  seems  silly  to  him,  and  he  cannot  help  laughing 
at  it,  and  leading  Miss  Wilton  with  him.  He 
cannot  be  trusted,  and  she  must  be  warned.  No 
one  regrets  it  more  than  I  do,  Miss  Van  Kuyster." 

They  were  silent  for  a  little  time  after  this, 
while  Marjorie  was  asking  herself  if  she  could 
undertake  the  horrid  task.  Should  she  alienate 


298  JOHN  PA  GET. 

these  only  friends  and  kinsfolk  she  had,  in  order  to 
save  John  Paget  ?  Claude  would  hate  her  for 
ever,  and  John  would  never  understand  why  she 
had  done  it.  She  could  not  plead  principle  as  a 
reason — she  could  not  say,  '  I  did  it  to  save  Mr. 
Paget.'  No  one  would  understand,  and  yet  some 
would  think  that  they  understood,  and  smile.  The 
color  burned  in  her  face — this  was  self-abnegation! 

She  looked  up  and  found  Miss  Grigsby  watch 
ing  her. 

"Will  you  trust  me  to  do  it,  Miss  Grigsby?" 
she  asked. 

"I  would  trust  you  most  implicitly,  Miss  Van 
Kuyster,  "  Miss  Grigsby  answered  quickly,  "  but 
you  would  be  misunderstood  all  round.  In  ap 
pealing  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster,  and  to  Mr. 
Paget,  I  have  only  thought  of  saving  Beatrice;  as 
between  Beatrice  and  Mr.  Paget  the  simplest  and 
least  painful  way  is  to  tell  the  girl  herself ;  how 
ever  it  comes,  it  will  hurt  her,  and  I  see  no  rea 
son  to  hurt  Mr.  Paget  by  the  way.  As  for  me, 
pain  should  not  matter  to  old  people  " — and  tak 
ing  up  the  letter  she  had  been  writing,  she  tore  it 
into  small  pieces  and  dropped  it  into  the  waste 
basket. 

"  And  are  you  determined,  Miss  Grigsby, " 
Marjorie  said,  making  a  last  appeal,  "determined 
to  plunge  us  all  into  this  pain  that  we  cannot 
possibly  gauge  beforehand  ?  " 

"  I  can  only  obey  my  conscience,  Miss  Van 
Kuyster,  and  leave  the  rest  to  God.  I  have  seen 


JOHN  PA  GET.  299 

a  great  deal  of  Mr.  Van  Kuyster ;  he  is  often  pres 
ent  at  Miss  Wilton's  recitations,  and  is  directing 
her  private  reading  into  dangerous  channels.  If 
my  faith  is  anything  to  me — if  my  Christianity 
is  worth  anything  at  all,  I  must  strive  to  save 
this  child.  I  love  her,  no  one  knows  how  dearly. 
My  heart  was  very  cold  and  lonely  when  she  came 
into  it,  and  by  some  instinct  she  seems  always  to 
divine  just  the  kind  of  sympathy  I  need.  I  love 
her  too  much  to  let  her  drift  into  spiritual  death. 
Whom  our  Heavenly  Father  loves,  he  chastens  ; 
perhaps  this  necessity  I  am  in  to  wound  this  love 
that  is  so  sweet  to  me  is  a  part  of  my  chastening ; 
perhaps  the  pain  I  will  give  Beatrice  is  a  part  of 
her  chastening.  She  will  believe  me  when  I  tell 
her  that  God  sends  it  for  her  good ;  she  will  nail 
this  worldly  love  to  the  cross  when  I  tell  her  that 
the  Master  asks  the  sacrifice ;  she  will  know  that 
those  wounded  hands  will  lead  her,  and  bring  her 
peace  at  the  last.  In  hesitating  to  tell  the  girl 
myself,  my  faith  faltered.  It  is  a  just  punishment 
to  me,  that  you,  who  do  not  believe  in  the  power 
of  this  faith,  should  have  witnessed  my  weakness. 
I  will  not  falter  again." 

Marjorie  rose  and  left  the  room. 

The  next  morning  Miss  Grigsby  sought  her. 
"  I  will  not  be  able  to  go  with  you  to  Mount 
Desert,"  she  said.  "I  think  it  my  duty  to  stay 
here  and  bear  the  results  of  my  action  until  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  sees  fit  to  dismiss  me.  I  thank 
you  very  much  for  your  offer." 


3°o  JOHN  FACET. 

"When  will  you  tell  Beatrice,  Miss  Grigsby?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  I  shall  await  an  opening." 
Then  she  went  away,  and  Mrs.  Van"  Kuyster, 
coming  in,  found  Marjorie  sitting  there  alone,  with 
her  face  hidden  on  her  arms  that  were  crossed  on 
the  table. 

"  Marjorie  !  "  she  called  from  the  doorway, 
"  Marjorie,  are  you  ill  ?  " 

Marjorie  lifted  her  head  slowly.  "  No,  Cousin," 
she  answered,  "  it  is  only  Miss  Grigsby.  It  seems 
to  me  that  I  am  waiting  for  the  ax  to  fall — that 
I  am  waiting  to  see  the  thread  of  that  young 
life  cut.  I  am  so  anxious,  I  am  so  nervous,  it 
seems  like  a  horrid  dream  !  I  do  not  even  know 
when  she  will  do  it.  Will  Beatrice  come  to  us 
and  tell  us — will  she  hate  Miss  Grigsby  and  defy 
her?  I  should,  but  then  I  am  not  a  Christian. 
I  used  to  think  I  was,  but  not  now." 

"Take  a  dose  of  aromatic  ammonia,  my  dear, 
and  when  Beatrice  comes  in,  we  will  give  her  a 
dose,  and  in  addition  a  dose  of  common  sense. 
I  shall  ask  for  Miss  Grigsby's  resignation  at  once  ; 
she  is  too  irritating,"  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  rang 
the  bell.  When  Christine  came  she  gave  her 
orders  promptly.  "  Bring  me  a  dose  of  aromatic 
ammonia,"  she  said.  "Tell  Johnson  I  want  the 
carriage  at  once.  Tell  Waters  to  put  up  a  lunch 
for  six,  with  champagne  and  the  tea-kettle.  Tell 
Miss  Wilton  that  she  will  not  go  to  Miss  Grigsby 
at  all  this  morning,  but  will  prepare  at  once  to 
go  out  with  me.  Give  the  messages  to  the  men ; 


JOHN  PA  GET.        ,  301 

then  look  after  Miss  Wilton  yourself.  We  go  to 
the  country  for  the  day."  Then  she  took  her 
seat  at  the  writing  table. 

Marjorie  had  not  spoken,  but  was  leaning  back 
looking  quite  pale ;  and  when  Christine  brought 
the  ammonia,  she  drank  it  silently. 

"  Now  prepare  for  the  picnic,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuy- 
ster  said,  "  and  it  will  help  you  as  much  as  the 
lilac  lunch  did.  We  will  stop  for  Ted  Dennis,  and 
tell  Dick  and  the  fair  De  Loren  to  follow,"  and 
taking  the  note  she  had  written,  she  went  away 
to  her  own  room. 

Very  soon  she  heard  the  carriage  drive  round 
to  the  front,  and  Beatrice  and  Marjorie  question 
ing  Waters  as  to  the  contents  of  the  hamper.  She 
only  waited  long  enough  to  inclose  a  check  in 
the  note  she  had  written,  and  giving  it  to  Chris 
tine  told  her  that  as  soon  as  they  were  gone,  she 
must  give  it  to  Miss  Grigsby.  She  was  also  to 
tell  Waters  that  Miss  Grigsby  was  to  leave  for 
New  York  that  day,  and  he  must  see  to  her  com 
fort  and  pay  all  expenses.  He  was  to  order  a  cab 
for  her  and  go  with  her  himself  to  the  station  or 
the  boat,  whichever  she  preferred. 

"  And  if  she  gives  you  or  Waters  any  note  or 
message  for  Miss  Van  Kuyster  or  for  Miss  Wilton, 
you  are  to  bring  it  to  me." 

She  went  downstairs,  smiling,  and  they  drove 
away. 


XXII. 

"  They  told  me  she  was  sad  that  day 
(Though  wherefore  tell  what  love's  soothsay 
Sooner  than  they,  did  register), 
And  my  heart  leapt  and  wept  to  her, 
And  yet  I  did  not  speak  nor  stir." 

THE  picnic  was  a  grand  success.  Marjorie  was 
restored  to  her  usual  cheerful  self,  and  Bea 
trice  declared  that  she  never  had  had  such  a 
pleasant  time  before  in  her  life. 

"Once  you  are  married  to  Claude,  your  life 
will  be  one  long  picnic,"  Marjorie  said  in  answer 
to  Beatrice's  ecstasies.  "  Claude  is  having  a 
brand-new  steam  yacht  built  ;  it  is  a  secret,  but 
I  tz\\  you.  It  is  to  be  named  the  Jackdaw,  and 
we  will  cruise  all  over  the  world,  next  year." 

Beatrice's  eyes  sparkled.  "  After  the  jackdaws 
in  Corpus  !  how  good  Claude  is  to  me" — and  she 
ran  away  upstairs. 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's  first  question  to  Christine 
was : 

"  Did  Miss  Grigsby  leave  any  note?  " 

"She  did  not  go,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  frowned  and  looked  at  the 
clock.  She  had  barely  time  to  dress  for  dinner, 
to  which  four  or  five  friends  were  bidden.  She 


JOHN-  PA  GET.  303" 

could  not  see  Miss  Grigsby  now,  and  to  lay  any 
command  on  her  not  to  see  Beatrice  would  be  as 
useful  as  to  tell  the  wind  not  to  blow ;  besides,  in 
any  event,  Miss  Grigsby  could  make  her  revela 
tions  by  letter.  After  a  moment's  thought  she 
said  :  "  Go  and  tell  Billings  not  to  leave  Miss 
Wilton  alone  for  one  moment  until  she  comes 
down  to  dinner." 

It  was  all  she  could  do,  and  Billings,  who  had 
not  been  rung  for  yet,  put  down  her  paper  in  a 
leisurely  way,  and  went  in  search  of  her  charge. 

As  Beatrice  ran  upstairs,  she  met  Miss  Grigsby. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  in  the  schoolroom  for 
a  few  minutes,"  she  said. 

"  Before  I  dress  for  dinner,  Miss  Grigsby  ?  There 
is  such  a  little  while." 

"  Immediately.  I  will  not  keep  you  ten  min 
utes."  And  leading  the  way  into  the  room  she 
closed  the  door.  The  lamps  were  not  lighted,  and 
Beatrice  walked  to  an  open  window. 

"  I  asked  you  to  come,"  Miss  Grigsby  said,  "be 
cause  I  must  leave  in  the  early  morning  train, 
and  will  not  be  able  to  see  you.  Mrs.  Van  Kuy- 
ster  does  not  need  my  services  any  longer.  In 
deed,  I  begin  to  feel  that  her  bringing  me  down 
at  all  was  a  piece  of  charity." 

"  I  assure  you,  Miss  Grigsby " 

"  I  know  all  that  you  would  say,  my  dear," 
Miss  Grigsby  interrupted.  "  And  you  must  not 
think  that  I  have  not  the  kindest  appreciation  of 
you,  for  you  have  made  my  life  very  pleasant  to 


JOHN  PA  GET. 

me,  and  I  trust  that  you  have  learned  to  care  for 
me  a  little." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Grigsby,"  catching  the  little 
lady's  hand  impulsively,  "  I  have  grown  very 
fond  of  you,  and  Claude  says  that  you  may  live 
with  me  always  if  you  will,  just  to  read  with  me." 

Miss  Grigsby  shook  her  head.  "  Mr.  Van 
Kuyster  does  not  want  me  now,"  she  said  ;  "  we 
have  had  a  very  serious  difference,  and  it  is  this 
that  I  wish  to  tell  you  about.  Mr.  Van  Kuyster 
is  an  infidel,  and  hopes  before  long  to  persuade 
you  to  think  as  he  does.  I  have  combated  his 
influence  as  well  as  I  could,  hoping  that  his  fancy 
for  you  would  fade.  It  has  not,  and  all  I  can  do 
is  to  warn  you.  To  Mr.  Van  Kuyster  there  is 
no  hereafter ;  this  world  is  all  that  he  believes 
in,  or  wishes  to  believe  in.  He  has  no  code  of 
morals  except  what  is  proper  or  improper  for  a 
gentleman.  He  is  selfish  through  and  through, 
and  gives  his  money  to  the  poor  only  to  save 
himself  from  being  bored.  To  him,"  pausing  a 
second,  "  Jesus  Christ  is  a  self-deceived  man  !  " 
Her  voice  was  low  and  tense;  her  hands  were 
locked  together,  and  even  in  the  dusk  light  Bea 
trice  could  see  how  her  eyes  were  burning. 
"They  have  done  everything  to  keep  me  from 
telling  you — they  took  you  away  to-day,  and  dis 
missed  me  in  order  that  I  should  not  speak  with 
you.  But  I  trampled  underfoot  all  my  sense 
of  delicacy — I  risk  all  your  affection — everything, 
in  order  to  frustrate  their  schemes  and  warn  you. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  3°5 

I  could  not  see  your  soul  destroyed  and  lift  no 
hand  to  save  it.  By  your  trust  in  the  holy 
woman  who  trained  you — by  the  memory  of 
your  dead  father — by  the  love  and  suffering  of 
Jesus  Christ,  I  beseech  you  to  nail  this  unholy 
love  to  the  cross — to  turn  from  this  death-in-life 
before  it  is  too  late.  Farewell !  "  and  she  left  the 
room  swiftly. 

The  blackness  of  darkness  seemed  to  have  fallen 
on  Beatrice,  and  through  it  came  the  sullen  thun 
der  of  the  waves. 

"You  have  only  fifteen  minutes  before  dinner, 
Miss  Wilton,"  and  Billings  stood  in  the  doorway. 
Beatrice  started  ;  this  at  least  was  real — Billings 
at  least  was  sane ;  and  she  went  immediately  to 
her  room. 

The  guests  were  already  assembled  when  Bea 
trice  entered,  looking  lovelier  than  usual,  for  her 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  were  shining 
with  a  startled  look  in  them.  An  abyss  of  plots 
and  counterplots  and  falseness  seemed  to  have 
opened  at  her  feet.  All  that  had  seemed  simple 
had  become  complex — all  whom  she  had  trusted 
had  failed  her.  Or  had  Miss  Grigsby  lost  her 
mind  ? 

"  I  think  Miss  Wilton  is  one  of  the  most  beau 
tiful  girls  I  have  ever  seen,"  Ted  Dennis  said  to 
Marjorie,  "  and  this  evening  she  has  just  that 
touch  of  brilliancy  which  she  needs  to  make  her 
perfect.  Van  Kuyster  is  lucky." 

Marjorie  looked  at  the  girl  critically,  then  gave 


JOHN  PA  GET. 

one  quick  glance  at  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster,  who  an 
swered  it  with  the  slightest  possible  movement  of 
one  shoulder.  Mr.  Dennis  smiled.  "  Has  she 
put  on  the  wrong  gown,"  he  said,  "that  you 
telegraph  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  ?  " 

"  No,  only  the  wrong  mood,"  Marjorie  answered 
with  a  laugh  ;  "  see  how  preoccupied  she  is.  She 
is  such  an  absent-minded  child." 

The  whole  evening  seemed  a  dream  to  Beatrice, 
and  that  night,  when  she  laid  her  head  on  her 
pillow,  the  only  conclusion  that  had  drifted  up 
and  lay  stranded  on  her  consciousness  was  that,  if 
Miss  Grigsby  were  not  crazy,  and  had  told  the 
truth,  everybody  in  her  world  was  banded  to 
gether  to  take  away  her  faith,  and  she  must  trust 
no  one.  She  had  not  realized  any  consequences 
yet,  and  had  come  to  only  one  determination:  she 
would  write  to  John  the  first  thing  in  the  morn 
ing. 

After  that  one  communication  which  Ted 
Dennis  had  detected,  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  and  Mar 
jorie  had  no  opportunity  for  a  word  together 
until  the  guests  were  gone,  and  after  a  quiet 
good-night  Beatrice  had  left  them  looking  at 
each  other  in  a  state  of  foiled  vexation. 

"Shall  we  telegraph  for  Claude?"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  asked. 

"  What  good  will  that  do  ?  " 

"  His  presence  will  counteract  Miss  Grigsby's 
revelations." 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  for  us  to  keep  the 


JOHN  FACET.  307 

girl  amused,  and  let  the  revelations  grow  dim 
before  Claude  returns  ? "  Marjorie  suggested. 
"  Let  her  come  out  a  little  more ;  drop  the  farce  of 
half-mourning ;  immerse  her  in  a  round  of  gayety, 
and  drown  the  disagreeable  impressions." 

"  Perhaps ;  at  least  I  will  try  the  experiment, 
though  I  have  little  faith  in  its  efficacy.  Beatrice 
is  morbid  by  nature  and  introspective  by  train 
ing,  and  it  will  all  come  to  the  front  now.  I  look 
for  developments  that  will  seem  very  extraor 
dinary  to  civilized  people.  She  has  taken  the 
first  news  quietly,  however,  and  your  morning's 
apprehension  of  a  furious  tragedy  was  a  useless 
strain  on  your  nerves." 

"  I  think  I  am  more  afraid  of  the  quiet,"  Mar 
jorie  answered,  "  but  do  you  think  she  will  say 
anything  to  us,  Cousin  ?  " 

"  Scarcely ;  she  will  take  it  out  in  probing 
Claude  through  and  through.  I  am  curious  to 
see  how'he  will  stand  it ;  whether  his  temper  or 
his  civilization  will  triumph." 

The  next  morning  Beatrice  wrote  to  John : 

DEAR  JOHN : 

Something  very  strange  has  happened  :  Miss  Grigsby  has 
been  dismissed,  and  before  she  left  she  told  me  that  Claude 
is  an  infidel ;  that  he  is  trying  to  destroy  my  faith,  and  that 
she  was  being  sent  away  because  she  had  threatened  to 
warn  me.  Do  you  think  it  can  be  true  ?  You  have  said 
that  I  might  marry  Claude,  and  surely  you  would  not  let  me 
marry  an  unbeliever  who  looks  on  the  Christ  as  a  self- 
deceived  man !  I  have  never  heard  such  an  awful  thing 
before.  Sometimes  Claude  has  said  strange  things,  but 


3°8  JOHN  PA  GET. 

I  thought  that  it  was  for  argument's  sake.  O  John,  it 
seems  too  awful!  The  Mother  said  that  the  sin  of  Judas 
was  unbelief.  Do  you  think  Miss  Grigsby  can  be  crazy? 
Cannot  you  come  down  ?  Everyone  else  is  in  league  against 
me,  Miss  Grigsby  said,  so  I  cannot  talk  to  them.  Please 
come  ;  it  is  your  duty  to  help  me. 

BEATRICE. 

As  she  wrote,  things  seemed  to  become  clearer, 
and  the  truth  of  MissGrigsby's  assertions  seemed 
borne  in  on  her.  Presently,  the  question  of  her 
duty  loomed  up,  and  one  after  another,  like  the 
waves  on  the  shore,  the  possible  consequences. 

"  Some  gentlemen  have  called,  and  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  says,  please  to  come  down,  Miss  Wilton." 

Beatrice  looked  up  in  surprise.  "  I  will  be 
down  in  a  moment,"  she  said,  "  and  please  see 
that  this  letter  goes  at  once." 

Was  this  being  called  down  a  sign  that  her 
schooldays  were  done?  Was  she  to  be  a  young 
lady  now?  Having  lost  much  of  her  timidity, 
she  felt  a  little  thrill  of  pleasure.  Miss  Grigsby 
must  be  crazy. 

John  was  going  down  town  ;  he  was  a  little  late, 
and  in  his  hurry  he  almost  ran  over  a  woman  at 
the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"  You  scarcely  remember  me,  Mr.  Paget,"  she 
said  ;  "  my  name  is  Grigsby ;  I  was  Miss  Wilton's 
governess." 

"  Why,  of  course  I  remember  you.  Have  you 
just  come  up  from  Newport  ?  " 


JOHtf  PAGET.  369 

"  Yes.  I  have  left  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's  service, 
and  if  you  can  spare  me  a  few  moments  in  the 
house,  I  should  like  to  tell  you  why." 

"  Certainly." 

John  led  the  way  up  the  steps,  and  open 
ing  the  door  with  his  latchkey,  ushered  Miss 
Grigsby  into  the  study.  He  placed  a  chair  for 
her,  then,  sitting  down  opposite,  waited  for  her  to 
speak. 

"  Of  course  you  are  aware  of  Miss  Wilton's  en 
gagement  to  your  brother,"  she  began  rather 
tremulously,  "  but  I  do  not  think  that  you  can 
know  that  Mr.  Van  Kuyster  is  trying  to  under 
mine  her  faith.  I  thought  this  before  I  left  New 
York,  but  was  not  sure  enough  to  speak.  In 
Newport  I  became  sure,  and  warned  Mr.  Van 
Kuyster  that  I  would  interfere.  He  treated  my 
warning  as  an  impertinence.  I  appealed  to  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster,  who  declined  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  the  matter.  My  next  thought  was  you, 
but  I  was  afraid  of  making  a  difficulty  between 
brothers,  so  I  went  to  Miss  Wilton  and  told  her 
the  whole  truth." 

After  the  first  moment  of  surprise  John  sat 
perfectly  still,  looking  down  into  the  waste  basket. 
There  were  some  pieces  of  a  very  ugly  yellow 
envelope  on  top,  and  some  bits  of  a  blue  bill — 
then  the  page  of  a  sermon  torn  in  half.  He 
would  remember  the  appearance  of  that  waste 
basket  to  the  end  of  his  days.  Presently  he  be 
came  conscious  that  his  companion  had  ceased 


310  JOHN  PA  GET. 

speaking,  and  looking  up  found  her  eyes  fixed  on 
him. 

"You  warned  Miss  Wilton  yourself?"  he  said 
hastily. 

"Yes." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  time  to  wait  for  an  answer." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Whatever  your  conscience  directs  " — rising. 
"  In  warning  Miss  Wilton  of  Mr.  Van  Kuyster's 
views  and  intentions,  and  of  her  danger,  I  feel 
that  I  have  done  all  my  duty  in  the  matter.  She 
will  doubtless  appeal  to  you  for  advice." 

"And  you  think  I  should  advise  her  not  to 
marry  my  brother?  " 

"  As  you  would  forbid  her  marrying  a  savage 
African  or  a  leper,"  her  eyes  flashing.  "  Tell  her 
to  turn  away  from  this  false  life,  and  to  nail  this 
unrighteous  love  to  the  Cross !  " 

John  sighed  deeply.  "  I  must  wait  until  she 
appeals  to  me,"  he  said  ;  then  looking  suddenly 
at  his  companion  he  asked  :  "  Do  you  believe 
that  a  man  should  crucify  his  own  life  in  order  to 
live  up  to  a  promise  made  in  his  wicked  youth?" 

"  Not  if  it  be  a  wicked  promise." 

"  It  was  not  wicked — but  it  was  not  a  promise 
in  the  letter  either,  only  in  the  spirit." 

"  Keep  it,  then,  at  all  costs." 

"Thank  you." 

At  the  door  Miss  Grigsby  paused.  "  Remem 
ber,  I  leave  Miss  Wilton  in  your  hands."  Then 


JOHN  FACET.  311 

she  was  gone,  and  John  not  remembering  to  open 
nor  to  close  doors  for  her,  or  to  say  good-by,  sat 
holding  fast  to  the  arms  of  his  chair,  with  his 
head  bowed  on  his  breast. 

Why  had  Elizabeth's  face  come  up  before  him 
in  that  moment  of  wicked  joy — looked  at  him 
from  the  ctibris  of  the  waste  basket  so  distinctly 
that  he  almost  spoke  to  her.  And  that  woman, 
that  ugly  little  woman,  had  said  that  he  must 
keep  his  promise  at  all  costs.  It  was  no  busi 
ness  of  hers.  Beatrice  would  not  marry  Claude 
now,  he  felt  sure  of  it.  He  had  not  connected 
Claude's  unbelief  with  her  before — he  should 
haye  done  it ;  he  should  have  taken  better  care 
of  the  child.  God  forgive  him  ! 

But  in  any  case  he  could  not  marry  Beatrice  ; 
he  must  go  and  hunt  for  Elizabeth  and  marry 
her  !  Perhaps  she  was  dead. 

He  rose  quickly ;  until  now  he  had  never 
dreamed  how  vile  he  was.  And  he  had  never 
really  made  any  promise  to  Elizabeth. 

His  work  was  waiting,  he  must  go.  All 
through  the  long  sultry  day  he  worked  and 
fought.  Beatrice  would  turn  to  him  for  advice, 
for  comfort  ;  how  cruel !  Perhaps  she  would 
not  ;  she  might  disregard  the  advice  of  Miss 
Grigsby — then  what  would  be  his  duty? 

Before  these  developments,  things  had  seemed 
hard  enough ;  now  they  seemed  impossible. 
Who  could  have  dreamed  that  Claude  was  a 
traitor?  Yet,  nothing  was  true  to  him — how 


312  JOHN  FACET. 

could  anything  be  false  !  He  was  going  to  marry 
the  girl,  and  it  would  be  extremely  inconvenient 
to  be  obliged  to  consider  her  prejudices  in  favor 
of  Christianity — to  have  to  live  up  to  a  standard 
that  meant  nothing  to  him,  and  that  yet  would 
involve  a  good  deal  of  personal  comfort.  But 
how  awful  to  take  away  the  faith  of  a  child  !  and 
she,  poor  clinging  thing,  could  not  live  without 
it.  To  drift  into  unbelief  one's  self  was  one 
thing,  but  to  persuade  a  child's  soul  away  from 
the  truth — how  awful  !  And  these  people  in  this 
gilded  world  were  consuming  with  moral  dry  rot 
— their  hearts  were  worm-eaten,  and  they  did  not 
realize  it.  Spiritually  dead,  what  a  farce  their 
religion  was  !  why  did  they  not  throw  off  the 
mask  and  come  out  in  their  true  light  ?  The 
vagrants  in  the  slums  were  better  material — the 
wickedness  out  on  the  border  was  more  hopeful. 
Yet,  until  he  had  kept  his  promise  as  that  ugly 
little  woman  had  told  him  he  must,  how  much 
better  was  he  than  this  world  he  affected  to  de 
spise  ?  By  being  false,  had  he  not  sapped  the 
foundations  of  faith  more  surely  than  could  be 
done  by  any  teaching  ? 

He  must  go  in  search  of  Elizabeth — go  at  once. 
But  what  should  he  do  about  Beatrice  ?  How 
was  it  that  he  had  not  foreseen  just  this  state  of 
things?  The  answer  was  simple  enough — he  had 
been  too  much  occupied  with  himself,  and  a 
stranger  had  had  to  lay  the  truth  before  her. 

How  long  the  day  was,  and  how  hot !     He  was 


JOHN  FACET.  313 

so  tired  he  was  not  fit  to  think  or  to  decide  any 
thing.  The  old  woman  he  had  been  caring  for 
had  died  two  days  before ;  the  young  girl  -died 
this  hot  afternoon.  He  had  prayed  with  her — 
had  heard  her  say  she  forgave  all  who  had 
harmed  her — had  stood  silent  under  her  gratitude 
and  blessings.  He  seemed  to  be  able  to  look  at 
himself  as  at  another  person,  and  to  loathe  this 
other  man  as  false — as  a  hypocrite — as  self-de 
ceived  and  self-righteous.  How  had  he  dared  to 
criticise ;  dared  to  despise  ;  dared  to  pray  or  to 
teach  !  would  God  forgive  him  ? 

He  took  a  cab  up  to  the  house,  and  found 
Beatrice's  letter ;  he  read  it,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  the  mission — spent 
a  half  hour  over  a  railway  guide,  then  packed  .a 
valise,  and  told  the  woman  that  he  was  going 
away  for  a  few  days. 

He  was  going  to  a  little  place  he  had  never 
heard  of  before  ;  but  it  was  by  the  sea,  and  far  to 
the  north.  It  would  be  quiet  and  cool. 

He  had  better  not  decide  anything  until  he 
had  rested  and  changed  his  environment. 


XXIII. 

"  A  little  while  a  little  love 

The  hour  yet  bears  for  thee  and  me 
Who  have  not  drawn  the  veil  to  see 

If  still  our  heaven  be  lit  above. 

Thou  merely,  at  the  day's  last  sigh, 
Hast  felt  thy  soul  prolong  the  tone  ; 

And  I  have  heard  the  night  wind  cry 
And  deemed  its  speech  mine  own. 

"  A  little  while  a  little  love 

May  yet  be  ours  who  have  not  said 
The  word  it  makes  our  eyes  afraid 

To  know  that  each  is  thinking  of. 

Not  yet  the  end  :  be  our  lips  dumb 
In  smiles  a  little  season  yet  ; 

I'll  tell  thee,  when  the  end  is  come, 
How  we  may  best  forget." 

"HOLLOWING  Marjorie's  advice,  Mrs.  Van 
1  Kuyster  put  aside  her  half  mourning,  and 
though  it  was  the  very  end  of  the  season  she 
opened  her  house  gradually  to  larger  companies, 
and  Beatrice  was  brought  forward  imperceptibly. 
But  however  gay  the  day  the  night  would  always 
come,  and  with  it  to  Beatrice  the  memory  of  Miss 
Grigsby's  last  words.  Claude  had  not  come  back 
yet,  and  from  John  she  had  had  only  a  note, 
dated  at  a  little  place  far  up  on  the  coast  of 
Maine.  He  had  gone  there  for  a  few  days'  per- 


JOHN  PA  GET.  315 

feet  rest  and  quiet  thought,  and  from  there  would 
come  to  Newport  and  talk  with  her.  She  had 
never  spoken  to  Marjorie  or  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
about  Miss  Grigsby,  although  they  had  led  up  to 
the  subject  by  talking  of  the  ex-governess  and 
her  peculiarities.  She  remembered  Miss  Grigs- 
by's  warning,  and  would  not  discuss  anything. 
They  might  overpersuade  her,  or,  all  Miss  Grigsby 
had  said  might  have  been  her  imagination, 
and  so  need  not  be  mentioned.  She  broke  the 
Mother's  command,  however,  not  to  write  to  her, 
and  poured  out  all  her  troubles.  She  was  not  at 
all  sure  that  the  Mother  would  answer,  for  letters 
except  in  the  strictest  business  sense  were  against 
the  rules  of  her  order.  She  had  written  to  the 
Mother  on  the  same  day  that  she  had  written 
to  John,  quite  a  week  ago ;  but  it  was  so  far,  and 
such  an  out-of-the-way  place,  that  it  would  take 
a  fortnight  and  more,  to  hear.  In  her  letters  to 
Claude  she  had  made  no  allMsion  to  anything, 
except  to  say  that  Miss  Grigsby  had  gone.  She 
had  begun  to  dread  his  return,  and  to  hope  that 
John  would  come  first.  Often  she  felt  a  deep 
anger  against  Miss  Grigsby  that  she  had  not  let 
things  alone  ;  they  had  been  so  happy.  Yet  why 
was  it  necessary  that  this  interference  should 
make  any  difference?  She  need  not  think  with 
Claude ;  surely  she  could  hold  her  own  faith  and 
maybe  convert  him ;  and  she  would  hug  this 
thought  to  her  heart,  and  fight  valiantly  against 
other  conclusions. 


316  JOHN  PA  GET. 

Meanwhile  she  made  friends  with  Mr.  Den 
nis;  he  was  of  Claude's  world,  and  she  turned  him 
into  a  moral  effigy  of  Claude,  asking  him  numer 
ous  and  unusual  questions,  so  that  he  voted  her 
not  only  beautiful,  but  piquante. 

"You  are  not  a  Christian,  are  you  ?  "  she  asked 
him  quite  frankly,  and  he  answered  with  equal 
frankness  : 

"  Of  course  not.     What  made  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  But  would  you  marry  a  Chris 
tian  ?  " 

"  If  she  were  very  pretty,  and  would  not  bore 
me  with  religion,  I  would  not  mind  much." 

"  And  you  would  allow  her  to  continue  a  Chris 
tian  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  I  would  bother  my  head  about 
it,  one  way  or  the  other." 

"  Are  you  afraid  to  die  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  comes  after  death  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  thought  about  it ;  and  as  nobody 
has  ever  come  back  to  tell  us,  nobody  can  know." 

"  Jesus  Christ  came  back  again  ;  and  the  Bible 
is  full  of  the  happiness  and  glory  of  the  future." 

"So!" 

"  I  believe  it  " — looking  up  wistfully. 

"Then  you  must  be  very  happy." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  ought  to  be,"  she 
said. 

"  But  you  are  troubled  about  those  who  do 
not  believe?  " 


JOHN  PA  GET.  317 

She  nodded  assent. 

"  I  don't  think  that  is  your  concern." 

"  It  must  be  my  concern  about  those  I  love. 
And  don't  you  see  how  it  would  be  if  your  wife 
were  a  Christian?  She  could  not  help  talking  to 
you  about  it ;  and  it  would  break  her  heart  if  you 
did  not  believe.  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  per 
suaded  her  over  to  your  way  of  thinking,  she  would 
die  of  misery  and  remorse.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

Dennis  looked  at  her  curiously.  "  If  she  were 
your  kind  of  Christian,  she  would,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
Miss  Van  Kuyster  would  not  mind  much,  do  you 
think?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  know  if  she  be  a 
Christian  at  all ;  is  she  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know,  either.  As  far 
as  I  can  see,  we  all  do  the  same  things — we  all 
seem  to  be  pretty  much  alike.  You  see  it  is  not 
a  general  topic  of  conversation,  and  one  cannot 
tell.  Charity  organizations,  now,  are  boringly  the 
thing  ;  but  that  has  come  to  be  a  science,  and 
science  and  religion  are  opposed,  are  they  not  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"And  are  you  miserable  about  Claude's  soul?  " 

She  looked  up  quickly.  "  Is  he "  she 

stopped.  "  Do  not  tell  me  anything — I  must  ask 
Claude  himself.  But  you  are  very  good  to  let  me 
talk  to  you  as  I  please." 

"You  may  say  whatever  you  like,"  Dennis 
answered  kindly,  "and  be  sure  I  shall  always 
understand  you." 


318  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  Thank  you.  Now  tell  me  honestly,  what 
would  you  think  of  a  Christian  who  would  marry 
an  unbeliever?  " 

"  You  must  tell  me  first  how  Christians  regard 
unbelievers." 

She  drew  a  long  sigh  that  caught  like  a  sob. 
"  Don't  ask  me  that,"  she  pleaded,  and  her  voice 
was  so  low  he  could  scarcely  distinguish  the 
words.  "  What  we  must  think  of  them  seems  so 
awful.  Won't  you  please  believe  ?  " 

"  I  cannot,  any  more  than  you  can  let  it  go. 
But  do  not  let  us  be  so  gloomy;  come,  take  a 
turn  at  tennis.  I  see  Dick  Leveret  and  Miss  Van 
Kuyster  idling  about  the  court."  She  acquiesced 
gently,  and  Dennis,  looking  at  her  critically, 
thought  that  she  grew  more  fragile  and  pathetic 
every  day. 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  and  Marjorie,  also,  saw  that 
Beatrice  grew  paler  and  more  languid,  else  she 
was  unusually  gay  and  with  a  brilliant  color. 
But  the  calm,  childlike  happiness  that  had  a  smile 
always  ready,  that  made  her  songs  and  laughter 
involuntary,  and  movement  a  pleasure — that  had 
gone. 

"  I  have  followed  your  advice,  Marjorie,"  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  said  one  day  when  they  were  driv 
ing,  "  but  the  revelations  of  Miss  Grigsby  are  not 
fading  from  Beatrice's  mind.  I  shall  write  for 
Claude,  and  speak  to  her." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well,"  Marjorie  an 
swered.  "  She  has  taken  it  quite  differently  to 


JOHN  PA  GET.  319 

what  I  expected,  and  keeps  me  at  a  distance  with 
the  ease  of  an  old  worldling." 

"  Her  father  had  that  faculty  of  impassable 
silence  ;  I  shall  find  difficulty  in  breaking  it 
down." 

She  wrote  to  Claude,  advising  his  return,  but 
she  put  off  from  day  to  day  the  talk  with 
Beatrice.  She  had  no  fancy  for  the  possible 
storm,  and  as  it  was  Claude's  affair,  thought  that 
he  might  just  as  well  be  there  to  bear  the  brunt 
of  it. 

In  his  turn  Claude  began  to  feel  averse  to 
meeting  Beatrice.  He  knew  that  she  would 
question  him  unerringly,  and  that  it  would  be  all 
but  impossible  to  turn  her  aside.  He  had  almost 
determined  not  to  try,  but  to  declare  his  position 
openly  and  depend  on  her  love.  He  dreaded 
this  test,  however,  and,  like  Beatrice,  was  willing 
to  defer  the  evil  day.  For  Miss  Grigsby  he  had 
only  the  most  condemnatory  words  in  three 
languages,  and  agreed  with  himself  that  if  ever 
there  were  an  honest  hatred  in  the  world,  it  was 
his  for  that  ugly,  meddlesome  little  woman.  In 
short,  things  were  becoming  decidedly  difficult, 
and  he  felt  provoked  and  impatient.  Why  in  the 
world  was  Beatrice  such  a  bigot  !  she  should  be 
more  considerate.  Then  he  would  remember  a 
tone — a  look — a  touch — and  a  great  gulf  would 
open  in  his  life.  He  would  swear  ten  thousand 
oaths  not  to  touch  her  faith  ! 

One  day  a  letter  came  from  John. 


320  JOHN  PA  GET. 

MY  DEAR  CLAUDE  : 

I  inclose  a  note  from  Beatrice  to  me,  which  will  explain 
itself.  When  will  you  return  to  Newport  ?  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  there  before  you,  and  yet  I  feel  that  I  must  go  very 
soon.  I  am  going  South  shortly,  and  wish  to  see  Beatrice 
first.  There  is  no  need  to  tell  you  what  Beatrice  is  to  me, 
nor  yet  what  the  Faith  is  to  me — you  can  see  how,  to  a 
certain  extent,  my  hands  have  always  been  tied,  and  still  are. 
Heretofore  I  have  looked  on  your  unbelief  as  negative — 
certainly  not  as  positive  and  proselytizing.  I  have  not 
touched  on  the  question  with  Beatrice  ;  she  has  been  care 
fully  trained  in  religious  matters,  and  the  question  is  one 
that  only  she  can  decide  ;  but  I  am  afraid  that  the  breach  is 
irremediable.  Please  let  me  know  as  soon  as  possible  when 
you  will  go  to  Newport. 

Claude  read  this  letter  twice.  It  seemed  im 
possible  that  he  should  ever  gauge  either  John  or 
Beatrice,  or  foresee  at  all  what  they  would  do 
under  any  circumstances.  Six  months  ago  he 
would  have  expected  John  to  rush  to  Newport, 
and  snatch  Beatrice  as  a  brand  from  the  burning  ; 
he  would  have  said  that  Beatrice  would  fill  her 
letters  with  pleadings  and  persuasions.  Now, 
John  left  the  matter  in  Beatrice's  own  hands, 
trusting  to  her  training  ;  and  in  her  letters  Bea 
trice  avoided  the  subject.  It  was  strange.  But 
one  thing  was  certain,  the  time  had  come  for 
action  ;  and  he  telegraphed  both  John  and  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster. 

"  Claude  comes  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  as  she  handed  the  message  to  Beatrice. 

They  were  having  afternoon  tea,  and,  as  usual 


JOHN  PA  GET.  321 

of  late,  Ted  Dennis  was  with  them.  He  saw 
Beatrice  start  a  little  as  Mrs.  Van  Kuystcr  spoke, 
then  watched  the  color  rise  and  fade,  and  a  pa 
thetic  look  come  into  her  eyes.  This  was  surely 
not  the  look  of  a  girl  expecting  her  lover;  were 
they  putting  force  on  the  child  ?  The  engage 
ment  had  not  been  formally  announced,  but  a 
few  understood  it,  and  until  now,  he  had  never 
seen  a  happier  looking  girl,  especially  when  she 
was  with  Claude.  Did  those  very  candid  re 
ligious  questions  she  had  put  to  him  have  any 
bearing  on  the  case  ? 

That  night  was  the  worst  that  Beatrice  had 
had,  and  morning  found  her  very  pale  and  lan 
guid.  After  breakfast,  out  on  the  veranda,  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  said  : 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  happier,  now  that  Claude 
is  coming,  Beatrice." 

Beatrice  looked  at  her  gravely.  "  I  hope  that 
I  may  be,  Aunt  Claudia,"  she  answered,  "but  I 
do  not  know  ;  I  must  try  before  I  can  tell.  It 
seems  to  me  now  that  we  have  drifted  very  far 
apart." 

"  Is  it  possible,  Beatrice,  that  you  will  allow 
Miss  Grigsby's  sensational  reports  to  influence 
you?" 

"  That  is  what  I  cannot  tell.  I  must  wait  until 
I  see  Claude.  I  am  so  weak,  you  see,  and  I  love 
Claude  so  much,  that  I  would  almost  surely  come 
to  think  with  him  after  a  while,  and  that  would 
be  death,  Aunt  Claudia.  You  are  strong,  you 


322  K        JOHN  FACET. 

see,  and  so  can  live  with  unbelievers  and  still 
keep  your  faith.  I  am  afraid  of  myself." 

"So  you  believe  Miss  Grigsby?" 

"  Sometimes  I  have  been  wicked  enough  to 
hope  that  she  was  false  or  crazy,  Aunt  Claudia, 
but  Miss  Grigsby  was  so  settled  in  her  ways,  and 
so  good,  that  I  am  afraid  she  was  right.  I  must 
ask  Claude." 

"And  if  what  she  told  you  be  true?  "  Marjorie 
asked. 

Beatrice  looked  out  to  sea.  "  Then  I  will 
have  to  decide  what  I  can  do,"  she  said. 

Marjorie  moved  quickly  to  the  steps  where  the 
girl  was,  and  sitting  down  beside  her  put  her 
arms  about  her. 

"  Will  you  break  our  hearts,  child  ?  "  she  pleaded 
— "ruin  Claude's  life  and  destroy  our  happy  cir 
cle?  Have  we  not  loved  you — have  we  not  been 
tender  and  gentle  to  you — have  we  persuaded 
you  to  any  wrong  word,  or  thought,  or  deed  ?  " 

Beatrice  was  still  as  a  stone  in  her  arms. 

"Can  you  leave  us — leave  Claude  and  all  his 
loving  care?  His  eyes  are  always  on  you,  his 
voice  cannot  be  soft  enough  for  you,  his  love 
spreads  all  over  your  path  to  make  every  step 
smooth.  Don't  you  love  him?" 

"Yes."  The  voice  was  very  tense  and  low, 
and  a  tremor  ran  through  the  girl.  Marjorie 
drew  her  closer. 

"  Are  we  so  wicked  that  you  cannot  live  with 
us — will  contact  with  us  wreck  your  soul  ?" 


JOHN  PA  GET.  323 

Beatrice  drew  away  a  little  so  as  to  look  into 
Marjorie's  eyes. 

"  That  is  not  it,"  she  said.  "  That  is  not  it — 
not  my  soul,  but  my  loyalty,  my  honor  !  How 
can  I  live  with  those  who  would  have  laughed 
the  Christ  to  scorn — who  would  have  betrayed 
and  crucified  him?" 

A  look  of  wonder  grew  in  Marjorie's  eyes.  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  rose.  "  I  hear  Claude,"  she  said  ; 
"he  has  come  by  the  early  boat." 

In  a  moment  Claude  stood  among  them,  fair 
and  handsome,  with  a  new  light  in  his  shadowy 
blue  eyes  that  were  hunting  for  Beatrice. 

"Well,  mother;  well,  Marjorie  " — kissing  them 
lightly.  Then  he  put  his  arm  about  Beatrice. 
"  Are  you  glad  to  see  me  ?"  he  said,  "  and  must  I 
charge  this  pale  face  to  the  account  of  that  brier 
of  a  woman,  Miss  Grigsby  ?  Could  not  you  and 
Marjorie  have  taken  better  care,  mother  ?"  draw 
ing  Beatrice  to  him,  and  turning  to  them  with  his 
eyes  full  of  pain.  , 

.  Beatrice  laid  her  hands  on  his  lips.  "  Every 
body  has  been  very  good  to  me,  Claude,"  she  said, 
"  even  to  Mr.  Leveret  and  Mr.  Dennis." 

"The  mischief!"  laughing  delightedly  at  the 
turn  of  her  speech,  "what  have  they  to  do  with 
you?  " 

"  She  and  Ted  Dennis  have  become  tremen 
dous  chums,"  Marjorie  said;  "you  will  have  to 
look  to  it." 

"  I  will,  indeed.     Just  wait  until  I  have  had  my 


324  JOHN  PA  GET. 

bath  and  breakfast — don't  run  off,  Beatrice." 
Then  he  went  away,  and  they  heard  him  going 
upstairs  three  steps  at  a  time. 

Picking  up  a  hat,  Beatrice  stepped  down  on 
the  lawn  and  walked  toward  the  lower  end  that 
stopped  abruptly  on  the  cliffs.  There  was  a  brisk 
wind,  and  a  booming  high  tide,  and  the  great 
waves  were  racing  toward  the  land  in  gigantic 
glee — dashing  against  the  stolid  cliffs,  and  fling 
ing  themselves  toward  the  sky  in  glittering 
showers  of  spray.  The  sky  was  blue,  the  sun 
was  bright ;  a  bed  of  mignonette  near  sent  up  a 
faint  perfume.  What  a  wonderful  world  and  life 
these  people  had  !  she  thought ;  at  the  Convent 
the  sky  and  the  water  were  just  as  blue — the  wind 
as  fresh,  the  flowers  as  sweet — the  love  as  true. 
But  nothing  would  seem  the  same. 

Claude  had  said,  "  You  have  listened  to  the  hum 
of  the  world — you  have  heard  far  off  the  cry  of 
pain  that  has  no  answer — the  echo  of  problems 
that  none  can  solve — you  have  put  your  lips  to 
the  cup  of  life  and  nothing  will  seem  the  same." 
Of  course  nothing  would  be  the  same.  Could 
she  play  with  her  doll  again  ?  Could  Marie  and 
Antoinette  understand  so  much  as  one  word  of 
her  story — the  words  she  would  say  to  them 
would  seem  like  a  strange  language.  "  The  cry  of 
pain  that  has  no  answer."  It  had  come  close  to 
her — close.  Her  heart  joined  in  it.  Why  had 
they  not  left  her  to  be  a  nun  ?  She  would  never 
have  known  anything  ;  she  would  have  been  only 


JOHN  PA  GET.  325 

a  grown-up  child.  But  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of 
knowledge  was  always  pain,  the  Mother  had  said, 
even  though  the  flower  might  be  joy.  She  had 
gathered  the  flowers  and  held  them  to  her  breast, 
and  the  thorns  had  pricked  the  blood  from  her 
heart ;  and  the  fruit  was  bitter  on  her  lips.  The 
waves  were  not  satisfied  until  they  dashed  them 
selves  to  pieces  on  the  rocks.  The  flowers  were 
not  satisfied  until  the  sun  had  burned  the  life  out 
of  them.  The  heart  could  not  be  satisfied  save 
by  the  knowledge  of  death.  Faith  satisfied  it — 
religion?  This  was  the  only  one  of  the  Mother's 
lessons  that  had  failed  her.  Nothing  could  sat 
isfy  her  now  save  love  or  death  ! 

She  clasped  her  hands  until  they  hurt  her. 
Had  she  lost  her  faith,  that  it  could  not  satisfy 
her  ?  Then  why  not  take  love  that  came  to  her 
in  such  beautiful  guise? 

She  got  up  hurriedly.  She  must  go  to  her 
room,  where  she  could  fight  this  temptation  on 
her  knees,  as  she  had  been  trained  to  fight  all 
her  little  trials.  And  her  training  had  been 
good. 

In  the  hall  she  was  stopped  by  Claude,  who 
drew  her  into  the  unoccupied  study,  closing  the 
door.  "  I  have  millions  of  words  to  say  to  you, 
dear,"  he  said,  "  and  I  want  to  begin,  for  fear 
that  life  will  not  be  long  enough  to  say  them  all 
unless  I  begin  at  once.  This  divan  is  comfort 
able,  we  will  sit  here,"  drawing  her  down  beside 
him.  "  First,  you  are  pale  ;  second,  you  are 


326  JOHN  PA  GET. 

sad ;  third,  you  are  silent.  Render  an  account. 
You  need  not  look  at- me  while  you  confess  your 
sins — you  may  hide  your  face  here  close  under 
mine;  but  you  must  confess.  You  have  gone 
away  to  nothing  but  eyes,  and  your  hands  are  like 
two  little  icebergs.  Talk,  don't  sigh  like  a  high- 
pressure  engine.  I  wish  I  had  followed  my  im 
pulse  the  day  that  little  viper  came  to  me,  and 
strangled  her  ;  but  her  throat  was  all  in  strings, 
don't  you  know,  and  I  did  not  like  to  touch  it. 
I  assure  you  that  was  the  only  thing  that  re 
strained  me.  If  I  had  thought,  I  might  have 
broken  her  up  with  my  walking-stick — she  looks 
brittle."  He  lifted  Beatrice's  face.  "Cannot 
you  raise  even  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  sweetheart  ? 
You  used  to  laugh  at  all  my  nonsense.  I  would 
not  hurt  the  little  Grigsby  for  the  world  ;  I  will 
endow  her  if  you  say  so  ;  I  really  feel  grateful  to 
her.  That  fetches  you,  does  it  ?  Why  you  are 
blushing — you  are  almost  as  red  as  a  piece  of 
mother-o'-pearl  !  You  may  hide  your  face  again 
now,  for  I  see  that  you  are  going  to  speak." 
"  Why  are  you  grateful  to  Miss  Grigsby?  " 
"  Because  she  has  opened  the  way  for  me  to 
say  some  things  that  I  wanted,  yet  dreaded,  to 
say.  I  was  afraid  to  touch  my  happiness ;  but 
since  she  has  made  an  explanation  imperative,  I 
arn  glad  to  speak,  for  it  will  only  make  my  happi 
ness  secure.  You  know  that  my  education  has 
been  altogether  different  from  yours  and  John's. 
Mr.  Van  Kuyster  was  an  atheist,  and  mother  was 


JOHN  FACET.  327 

not  permitted  to  have  any  influence  over  me. 
Do  you  see  how  I  was  trained  ?  " 

Beatrice  raised  his  hand  to  her  lips,  and  the 
mute  gesture  seemed  to  make  the  whole  world 
spin  about  him.  "  I  had  no  Christian  training," 
he  went  on,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "  and  I  would 
not  become  an  atheist,  so  the  best  I  could  do 
was  to  hold  all  things  in  solution.  I  hold  them 
so  still,  dear  ;  will  not  you  crystallize  them  for  me  ? 
You  are  the  highest  I  have  known  ;  will  you  not 
lift  me  up  ?  I  will  never  say  a  word  or  think  a 
thought  against  your  faith  ;  until  I  can  rise  to  it, 
I  will  reverence  it.  Will  you  not  trust  me  ?  " 

Beatrice  made  a  motion  to  draw  away,  and  his 
arms  dropped  from  about  her.  She  looked  into 
his  eyes  that  did  not  flicker — looked  until  her 
own  grew  dim. 

"  It  is  I  who  am  weak  and  wicked,"  she  whis 
pered  at  last,  putting  her  hands  each  side  his 
face,  "  I  who  love  you  more  than  I  love  God !  " 
Then  she  broke  into  convulsive  sobs. 

"That's  right,"  drawing  out  his  handkerchief, 
"  we  will  cry  it  out  and  be  done  with  it.  Put 
your  head  down  and  sob  as  much  as  you  like. 
This  handkerchief  is  not  meant  as  a  preventive, 
dear,  but  only  as  a  sort  of  breakwater.  I  think 
I  heard  a  little  smile  then  ?  You  must  forgive 
my  nonsense  ;  it  is  born  of  hilarity,  which  in  its 
turn  comes  of  the  immense  relief  of  hearing  that 
you,  and  not  I,  are  the  chief  sinner  in  this  matter, 
and  that  the  sin  is  what  it  is.  But  love  like  yours 


328  JOHN  PA  GET. 

is  never  a  sin,  my  darling,  no  matter  where  it  is 
placed.  And  even  Calvin's  God  would  not  hurt 
you.  I  think  you  must  have  been  an  '  elect  infant,' 
little  one  ;  what  do  you  think?  Here  comes  the 
mother  " — looking  up,  "  Come  in,  mother,  we  have 
told  all  our  secrets,  and  Beatrice  is  going  to  bathe 
her  face,  then  help  me  with  my  breakfast." 

"  Oh,  how  hungry  you  must  be  !  " 

"  It  is  truly  awful,"  putting  her  hand  in  his 
arm,  and  leading  her  into  the  hall ;  "  but  I  thought 
that  I  would  have  to  vituperate  the  little  Grigsby, 
and  I  could  have  done  it  better  hungry,  don't 
you  know  ;  as  it  was,  I  had  to  use  a  good  deal  of 
self-control  not  to  eat  you."  Then  Beatrice  went 
upstairs,  and  Claude  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  into 
the  dining  room. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"  Well !  "  And  taking  his  seat  at  table,  Claude 
leaned  back  wearily.  "  I  have  been  having  a 
beastly  time,  and  it  is  not  quite  over."  Then  to 
Waters,  who  was  leaving  the  room,  "  I  want  every 
thing  you  have  in  the  shape  of  food  ;  I  have  not 
had  anything  decently  served  or  cooked  since  I 
went  away.  As  for  me,"  turning  again  to  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster,  "  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  you  are  the  wisest  woman  I  know  ;  and  after 
much  thought  and  introspection,  which  have  been 
a  useless  bore,  I  have  taken  your  advice.  I  have 
sworn  a  thousand  oaths  not  to  touch  the  faith  of 
anybody,  not  even  a  twenty-wived  Mormon  ;  and 
further,  I  am  willing  and  ready  to  have  my  latent 


JOHN  PA  GET.  329 

faith  developed,  and  my  fluid  hypotheses  crys 
tallized  into  immovable  beliefs.  In  short,  I  am 
waiting  to  be  converted." 

"If  it  can  be  done" — and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
smiled. 

"  That  goes  without  saying.  My  conversion 
will  be  good  spiritual  exercise  for  Beatrice." 

"  You  will  get  very  tired  of  that." 

"  She  will  get  tired  first,  I  fancy.  The  next 
trial  will  be  Jack  :  he  is  going  South — the  fever, 
I  suppose — but  will  come  here  first." 

"  You  think  he  will  be  difficult  about  Beatrice  ?  " 

"No;  he  is  consistently  Protestant  and  leaves 
the  decision  to  her  private  judgment ;  and  beyond 
that,  he  may  be  as  easy  to  convince  of  my  amena 
bility  to  religion  as  you  are." 

"  I  am  nearer  feeling  contempt  for  you,  Claude, 
than  ever  in  my  life  before." 

"  Thank  you  ;  in  a  mild  degree  I  am  enjoying 
the  same  feeling  myself.  Yet,  I  have  not  done 
anything  intrinsically  false  or  illogical.  I  profess 
to  hold  only  what  can  be  proved  absolutely;  and 
on  careful  examination  I  find  that  I  cannot  prove 
so  much  as  my  own  existence.  And  as  an  un- 
provable  existence  cannot  give  bond  for  the  exist 
ence  of  anything  else,  there  is  no  truth — hence 
there  can  be  nothing  false.  And  it  will  be  hard 
to  sustain  a  solid  contempt  for  a  fluid  nothing — 
nicht  wahr?  " 

"  What  was  Marjorie's  fine  phrase  about  you 
the  other  day?  " 


33°  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  Marjorie  has  been  using  so  many  fine  phrases 
since  Jack  has  become  the  inspiration  of  her  life, 
that  I  cannot  possibly  remember  any  special  one." 

"That  you  do  not  live,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
went  on  calmly,  "  but  only  exist  in  a  lifeless  desert 
of  critical  negation — it  was  good." 

"  Marjorie  says  a  great  many  things  that  are 
good  according  to  the  modern  standard — that  is, 
introspective  analytical  things.  I  am  tired  of 
them:  I  should  like  to  be  transported  back  into 
the  good  old  days  when  squires  of  high  degree 
could  neither  read  nor  write,  and  ladies  became 
excited  over  tapestry  work  ;  when  knights  rode 
forth  and  killed  anybody  who  did  not  agree  with 
them.  By  which  token  I  am  going  to  reread  Sir 
Walter  and  Fielding.  There  is  no  science  or 
religion  there,  thank  God.  Nothing  but  good  old 
stories  where  black  was  black,  and  white  was 
white,  and  introspection  an  unknown  word.  I  am 
worn  out  with  modern  infinitesimalness." 

"  Literature  has  taken  a  wide  sweep,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  answered,  "  but  we  are  coming  back  to 
stories.  Presently  the  machinery  of  introspection 
will  be  kept  out  of  sight,  and  only  the  results 
given  in  the  action,  this  action  being  most  deli 
cately  adjusted,  and  every  word  necessary." 

"  Why  do  not  you  write  a  novel  ?  " 

"  Why  do  not  you  go  out  as  a  day  laborer  ?  " 

"  That  answer  is  the  result  of  concealed  in 
trospection,  I  suppose,  and  you  would  call  it 
delicately  adjusted." 


JOHN  PA  GET.  331 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  laughed.  "As  you  like," 
she  said  ;  "  but  you  are  answered." 

"  Granted.  What  have  you  on  hand  for  to 
day?" 

"The  usual  round  of  rides,  and  drives,  and 
tennis;  a  few  people  to  dinner  this  evening, 
and  to-night,  cards.  By  Marjorie's  advice  I 
have  been  bringing  Beatrice  forward,  in  order  to 
divert  her  thoughts  from  Miss  Grigsby's  revela 
tions." 

"  Good  ;  has  it  succeeded  at  all  ?  " 

"  We  cannot  tell ;  she  has  never  opened  her 
lips  on  the  subject  until  we  put  the  direct  ques 
tion  to  her  this  morning.  Marjorie  asked  her 
what  she  would  do  if  she  found  what  Miss 
Grigsby  said  of  you  to  be  true  ;  and  she  answered 
that  she  did  not  know,  she  would  have  to  try 
herself  and  see." 

Claude  stirred  his  coffee  reflectively.  "  She  is 
all  right  now,"  he  said,  "  but  I  dread  Jack  a  little. 
He  wrote  that  it  was  a  question  that  Beatrice 
must  decide  for  herself — still " 

"  You  are  afraid  ?  " 

"  A  little  ;  Jack  seemed  so  sure  that  Beatrice 
would  be  true  to  her  training." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  too." 

"I  wish  I  had  obeyed  my  instincts  and  dis 
missed  Miss  Grigsby  long  ago." 

"  Do  not  blame  Miss  Grigsby  too  much,  Claude  ; 
if  she  had  not  made  the  mischief,  time  would 
have ;  and  it  is  better  for  it  to  come  before  things 


33 2  JOHN  PA  GET. 

are  irremediable.  You  will  suffer,  but  neither 
long  nor  deeply." 

"  In  the  name  of  common  sense,  what  do  you 
mean !  "  he  said,  and  his  eyes  were  flashing. 
"Do  you  dream  for  one  moment  that  I  will  be 
defrauded  of  Beatrice  ?  to  keep  her  I  will  sacrifice 
everything — truth — honor — all  !  " 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  helped  herself  to  a  bunch 
of  grapes.  "  The  only  trouble  is  that  with  all 
your  sacrificesyou  will  not  be  able  to  deceive  her," 
she  answered  quietly ;  "absolute  truth  is  an  un 
failing  touchstone.  Have  not  you  observed  how 
in  the  person  of  John  it  has  touched  all  our 
motives  and  lives  to  their  infinite  detriment? 
Have  we  not  felt  ourselves  '  sounding  brass  and 
tinkling  cymbals  '  beside  him?  Your  protesta 
tions  may  shine  like  the  silver  of  truth,  but  they 
will  turn  black  when  tested.  I  am  not  making 
myself  agreeable,  I  know,  but  I  want  you  to  take 
hold  of  yourself  in  time,  and  look  at  this  thing  in 
a  calm  way.  I  do  not  want  you  to  let  go  the 
only  thing  you  have  that  is  worth  having — your 
self-respect.  You  have  no  faith  outside  of  your 
self,  therefore  you  must  be  self-centered,  and  the 
core  of  your  life  is  your  self-respect.  If  you  let 
go  '  truth — honor — all,'  as  you  threaten,  you  will 
have  to  despise  yourself  and  be  miserable.  You 
believe  in  nothing,  therefore  there  is  nothing  to 
which  you  can  make  confession — that  can  absolve 
and  reinstate  you.  Christianity  turns  even  sins 
to  account — trampling  them  into  steps  on  which 


JOHN  FACET.  333 

to  rise.  Your  only  hope  is  to  trample  your 
desires  underfoot,  and  be  what  you  call  civilized. 
In  short,  refuse  to  feel  ;  it  is  all  you  can  do.  It 
is  the  same  process  as  petrifaction,  and  it  hurts, 
but  not  as  losing  your  self-respect  would  hurt. 
Here  is  Beatrice — come  in,  dear." 


XXIV. 

"  The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter — and  the  Bird  is  on  the  wing." 

IN  a  few  days  John  arrived,  meeting  the  family 
first  as  they  came  down  to  dinner.  After 
dinner  Beatrice  slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

"  Sit  by  me  on  this  sofa,"  she  whispered,  and 
John  obeying  her,  she  still  clung  to  his  hand. 
"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  all  by  myself  in  the  dark," 
she  said,  "  and  I  am  so  relieved  to  find  you." 

John  smiled  kindly.  "  I  am  glad  to  find  you 
too,  dear,  but  it  is  not  quite  the  thing  for  me  to 
keep  your  hand  in  this  roomful  of  strangers, 
even  if  they  cannot  see  it." 

"  It  cannot  matter  with  one's  brother,"  she 
said;  "can  it,  Claude?"  Turning  to  him  as  he 
approached,  "  Is  it  wrong  to  hold  one's  brother's 
hand  in  company  ?  " 

Claude  looked  at  John  and  smiled.  "  It  is 
wrong  to  hold  one's  grandmother's  hand  in  com 
pany,"  he  said  ;  "  don't  you  think  so,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Just  what  I  have  been  telling  her,"  John 
answered,  giving  her  hand  a  little  pressure,  then 
letting  it  go.  "  And  Aunt  Claudia  is  signaling 
me — see  !  " 

The  light  died  out  of  Beatrice's  eyes  as  he 

334 


JOHN  PA  GET.  335 

went  away,  and  the  color  from  her  cheeks;  and 
as  Claude  slipped  into  John's  place,  she  rose 
quickly. 

"  Let  us  play  cards,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  want 
to  think,  please,  Claude." 

"  Very  well,  we'll  never  think  again,  if  you  say 
so;  but  before  we  agree  to  stop,  let  me  express 
one  thought,  dear — that  I  make  a  better  return 
for  your  affection  than  Jack  does." 

"  You  are  looking  worn,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
said,  as  John  drew  a  chair  near  hers ;  "you  make 
life  too  much  of  a  struggle." 

"  I  do,"  he  answered.  "  I  should  long  ago 
have  reached  that  point  where  doing  my  duty 
would  not  be  an  effort." 

"  You  know  very  well  that  I  did  not  mean  that. 
I  think  that  you  do  too  much  duty.  What  is 
this  I  hear  about  your  going  South  ?  " 

"  Only  that  I  am  going.  The  fever  is  epi 
demic,  though  not  yet  declared  so." 

"  And  this  is  the  duty  that  requires  effort  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  I  am  glad  to  go." 

"John!" 

"It  is  true:  I  am  sinfully  glad  to  go;  my 
death  there  would  be  almost  a  case  of  suicide.  I 
am  so  tired." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  was  silent,  opening  and 
shutting  her  fan  slowly. 

"  Beatrice  held  my  hand  and  called  me 
brother,"  John  went  on. 


336  JOHN  PAGET. 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's  fan  shut  with  a  snap. 
"  How  do  you  think  she  is  looking  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Pale.  She  seems  troubled,  too.  Miss  Grigsby 
— came  to  see  me." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  That  depends  on  what  Beatrice  does.  She 
has  been  carefully  trained,  and  Miss  Grigsby 
warned  her.  She  should  decide  for  herself ;  but  if 
she  appeals  to  me,  I  must  tell  her  what  I  think." 

"  That  it  would  be  a  sin  to  marry  a  skeptic  ?  " 

"  That  I  should  be  afraid  to  trust  myself  to  do 
it.  But  I  did  not  dream  that  Claude's  unbelief 
was  positive." 

"  It  has  grown  with  his  growth ;  but  he  will 
not  touch  Beatrice's  faith." 

"  There  is  great  analogy  between  faith  and 
'.  muscle.  A  prize-fighter,  for  instance,  has  to  live 
\  very  carefully ;  so  has  a  Christian :  and  a  prize 
fighter  would  never  dream  of  living  in  a  bad 
:  atmosphere." 

"  You  are  too  good,  John  ;  it  is  not  practicable." 

"  My  dear  aunt,  I  ought  to  be  kicked.  If  it 
would  do  any  good,  I  would  confess  my  sins  to 
you." 

"  Beatrice  holds  you  a  saint,  and  adores  you 
accordingly." 

"  That  hurts  me  more  than  I  can  tell.  If  I 
could  only  reveal  myself — could  make  people 
realize  me  as  I  am,  it  would  be  a  marvelous 
relief.  Just  as  the  Ancient  Mariner  told  his 
story  everywhere." 


JOHN  PAGET.  337 

"  And  the  world  would  '  beat  its  breast '  and 
vote  you  a  bore.  I  assure  you  that  the  world 
only  cares  for  results — it  prefers  to  make  its  own 
estimates,  and  is  not  in  the  least  grateful  for 
revelations  unless  they  be  spicy.  That  the  roots 
of  the  vine  were  wrapped  around  forgotten  bones, 
does  not  matter  if  the  fruit  be  sweet  and  the  wine 
strong.  And  if  the  world,  grubbing  about,  found 
the  bones — found  even  the  sunken  headstone 
saying  that  its  faithful  friend  Smith  lay  there, 
the  world  would  drink  his  health  and  say  '  Smith 
succeeded  better  as  a  vine  than  as  a  man  ! ' ' 

John  laughed.  "  I  have  no  intention  of  put 
ting  the  dry  bones  of  my  past  on  exhibition,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  have  a  perfect  loathing  for  shams." 

"  Rest  quite  sure,  my  dear,  that  you  will  get 
your  deserts.  The  world  never  overestimates 
an  honest  man,  though  she  sometimes  wor 
ships  brute  beasts.  Moses  might  have  been 
inspired,  but  he  was  mistaken  in  thinking  that  he 
had  destroyed  the  golden  calf." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  John 
asked,  "Where  does  Claude  stand  religiously?" 

"  Nowhere." 

"  Is  he  open  to  conviction  ?  " 

"About  as  much  as  you  are  to  carefully  pre 
meditated  sin." 

"  Aunt  Claudia,"  looking  at  her  earnestly, 
"how  do  you  live?  how  can  you  do  without 
hope — without  the  comfort  and  strength  that 
Christianity  gives  one  ?  How  can  you  bear  to 


33$  JOHN  PA  GET. 

have  your  horizon  bounded  from  winter  to  sum 
mer,  from  New  York  to  Newport  ?  " 

"We  go  to  the  Adirondacks  sometimes,"  she 
answered,  smiling.  "  We  meditate  a  trip  there  in 
a  week  or  ten  days.  Then  Claude  is  having  a 
new  steam  yacht  built,  and  after  his  marriage  we 
will  go  on  a  long  cruise.  Our  horizon  will  be 
immensely  widened,  don't  you  see?" 

"Yes,"  John  answered  quietly;  but  he  was 
pale  down  to  his  lips,  and  his  eyes  were  flashing. 

"Are  you  bent  on  going  South?"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  went  on. 

"Yes." 

"How  soon?" 

"As  soon  as  possible." 

"Your  living  without  common  sense  is  as 
enigmatical  to  vme  as  my  living  without  faith 
and  hope  is  to  you." 

"  Let  us  hope  that  we  misjudge  each  other," 
John  answered,  "and  while  I  think  of  it,  I  want 
to  ask  you  a  question :  In  case  I  never  marry, 
how  would  you  like  the  Paget  property  left?" 

"  Claude's  second  son  is  to  take  the  name,  he 
says." 

"  Leave  it  in  trust  to  Claude,  then." 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  for  you  to 
marry  ?  " 

"  I  may  be  married  very  soon,"  John  answered. 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  leaned  forward.  "You  have 
someone  in  view?"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  in  the  South." 


JOHN  PA  GET.  339 

"Good  blood,  John?" 

"  Her  father  is  an  Englishman  with  a  coat  of 
arms;  and  she  is  the  strongest  woman  I  know." 

"Are  you  engaged  to  her?" 

"  No,  but  I  intend  to  give  her  the  opportunity 
of  accepting  me." 

"Will  you  tell  me  her  name?" 

"Yes,  when  we  announce  our  engagement." 

"  Meanwhile,  you  are  bent  on  committing 
suicide  in  a  fever  epidemic.  I  would  not  accept 
you." 

"Until  I  have  made  other  duties  for  myself,  I 
consider  that  all  humanity  is  my  duty." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"I  repeat  that  your  ability  to  live  without 
common  sense  is  an  enigma,"  she  said. 

"Is  this  the  gray  gauze  fan  you  let  me  select 
for  you  last  spring?"  John  asked,  taking  her  fan 
from  her. 

"Yes,  on  the  one  occasion  that  you  instituted 
yourself  errand  boy  for  the  family." 

John  laughed.  "I  must  make  a  confession 
about  that,"  he  said  ;  "  I  had  broken  one  of 
your  paper  knives  and  wanted  to  replace  it  be 
fore  you  knew — I  was  afraid  of  you.  This  is 
honest." 

"  It  is  too  ridiculous  to  believe." 

"  Nevertheless  it  is  true." 

"  I  never  understood  that  freak  ;  as  you  never 
repeated  it,  it  seemed  a  freak." 

"  I  never  broke  any  more  paper  knives.     Do 


34°  JOHN  PA  GET. 

you  think  Miss  Van  Kuyster  will  ever  accept 
Kinsey  ?  He  is  a  fine  fellow." 

"  I  think  Marjorie  will  marry  Claude." 

"  Aunt  Claudia  !  " 

"  I  really  think  so ;  I  have  not  the  remotest 
expectation  of  Beatrice's  doing  it." 

"  Then  what  will  become  of  the  child  ?  " 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  shook  her  head.  "  I  cannot 
tell — I  cannot  even  surmise.  Do  you  think  it 
right  to  go  and  kill  yourself  first,  and  marry  a 
stranger  afterward?  Do  you  owe  no  duty  to 
Beatrice  ?  " 

John's  face  had  a  grayish  look,  and  his  eyes 
that  were  turned  on  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  were  filled 
with  despair.  "  Surely  she  loves  Claude,"  he  said 
in  a  low  voice  ;  "  surely  you  will  not  let  her  heart 
be  broken." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"  What  can  anyone  do  but  wait,  and  watch,  and 
help  gather  up  the  fragments?"  she  said.  "We 
are  never  satisfied  until  we  have  broken  our  hearts 
and  maimed  our  lives  in  our  own  way.  I  tell  you 
that  nothing  else  satisfies  humanity.  Save  people 
against  their  wills,  and  they  hate  you  forever; 
the  mirage  you  held  them  from  takes  ever  more 
and  more  beautiful  colors,  and  you  grow  ever 
more  and  more  obnoxious.  Beatrice  and  Claude 
fancy  that  their  love  is  a  life-and-death  matter ; 
but  this  question  of  religion  will  make  shipwreck 
of  it  all.  What  can  I  do  ?  Only  wait,  and  watch, 
and  help  gather  up  the  fragments.  This  is  life." 


JOHN  PAGET.  $41 

"  It  is  not  !  "  John  said.  "  We  may  maim 
our  lives,  we  may  break  our  hearts,  we  may  de 
scend  into  the  blackest  sin,  yet  even  of  sin  we 
can  make  steps  on  which  to  rise.  I  will  not 
think  but  that  there  is  glory  and  joy  in  life.  I  may 
not  reach  it — that  is  my  fault  ;  but  it  is  there 
for  those  who  live  aright ;  and  whatever  befalls,  I 
will  not  let  go  my  hope,  my  faith.  The  God- 
Christ  lives  and  loves  us,  and  is  with  us  ;  do  not 
dream  that  I  doubt  it  for  one  second — no,  not 
even  if  you  find  that  I  touch  the  lowest  depths 
of  degradation."  Then  he  left  her.  As  he 
passed  around  the  card  tables,  he  paused  a  mo 
ment  beside  Beatrice  because  he  had  caught  a 
wistful  look.  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  watched  him  as 
he  stooped  a  little  to  see  her  hand  ;  how  deathly 
white  he  was !  He  smiled  and  nodded,  and  went 
his  way  out  into  the  brilliant  night  ;  the  only 
comfort  for  his  pain  was  to  be  where  none  could 
see. 

The  moon  was  touching  every  shrub  and  tree 
into  light ;  the  wind  was  laden  with  the  perfume 
of  flowers,  and  every  wave  was  turned  to  silver  as 
it  came.  It  was  a  help,  this  tumultuous  sea  ;  its 
movement  seemed  to  still  him  as  he  walked  on 
slowly,  thinking  of  the  problems  that  lay  about 
him. 

Somehow  this  gilded  luxury,  the  highest  reach 
of  civilization,  touched  hands  in  its  effects  with 
the  brutalizing  slums.  Both  extremes  seemed  to 
smother  heart  and  soul  ;  but  in  these  higher 


342  JOHN  PAGET. 

ranks  the  death  seemed  more  complete,  for  the 
death  was  so  slow  and  so  sweet.  Down  yonder 
they  fought  it,  for  the  death  was  bitter. 

Must  he  leave  Beatrice  to  this  slow,  sweet  death  ? 
It  would  surely  come  to  her,  that  or  the  bitterest 
struggle  of  all.  What  was  his  duty  to  Beatrice? 

He  sat  down  on  a  rock  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands.  Must  he  tell  Claude  all  his  hu 
miliation  of  the  past  as  well  as  the  pain  of  the 
present  in  order  to  convince  him  that  there  was 
no  selfish  motive  at  the  root  of  his  interference, 
if  he  must  interfere  ? 

He  rose  and  walked  on  hastily.  Even  this  he 
would  do,  if  necessary.  A  little  humiliation  more 
or  less,  what  did  it  matter  in  the  light  of  what  he 
had  already  suffered  and  might  avert  from  others? 
After  a  time  pain  numbs  one. 

He  turned  again  to  the  house.  It  was  well 
this  trial  had  come  into  his  life,  to  show  him 
what  a  coward  and  hypocrite  he  was. 

They  were  still  playing  cards,  and  he  drew  a 
chair  near  to  Beatrice. 

Her  face  lighted  up.  "  Do  you  know  how  ?  " 
she  whispered. 

"Yes,  but  I  must  not  advise." 

Watching  him,  Marjorie  felt  her  heart  ache, 
Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  analyzed  his  pluck,  and  Claude 
grew  uneasy.  The  sooner  he  made  his  position 
clear  to  John,  the  better;  there  was  no  counting 
on  these  conscientious  scruples,  or  what  they 
might  persuade  a  fanatic  into  doing. 


JOHN  FACET.  343 

"  Are  you  going  South  ?  "  Claude  asked,  when, 
the  guests  having  gone,  they  were  standing 
about  preparatory  to  separating  for  the  night. 

"  Yes." 

"  South,  John  ?  "  and  coming  close  to  him  Bea 
trice  laid  her  hands  on  his  arm,  and  lifted  a  dis 
tressed  face  to  his.  "  What  for — when  ?  " 

"  To  my  work,  child,  and  now." 

"You  promised,  John,"  she  faltered. 

"  That  I  would  never  go  without  your  full 
knowledge,  and  that  I  was  sure  you  would  let  me 
do  my  duty — you  will  ? "  taking  her  hands  and 
holding  them  together  in  his.  "  And  remember," 
he  went  on,  "  that  things  have  changed  since  then. 
Then  you  belonged  to  me,  in  a  measure  ;  now  you 
belong  to  Claude."  Turning  to  his  brother,  "  I 
have  never  ceded  my  guardianship  formally  ;  will 
you  let  me  give  it  up  now  ?  "  And  he  put  the  girl's 
hands  into  Claude's.  "  Remember,  it  is  a  soul  you 
take,  not  my  little  sister  only." 

"  It  is  twelve  o'clock  !  "  And  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
held  out  her  hand  to  John.  "  Come,  help  me  up 
stairs,  I  am  so  tired.  And,  Claude,  do  not  take 
too  long  to  realize  Beatrice's  soul ;  the  child  looks 
pale." 

"  I  am  coming  too,"  Beatrice  said  quickly. 
"Wait  for  me?" 

"  One  moment  " —  and  Claude  detained  her.  "  I 
promise  not  to  keep  you  long." 

She  looked  at  him  appealingly.  "  Not  to 
night,  Claude,"  she  whispered,  "  not  to-night." 


344  JOHN  FACET. 

"  Yes,  to-night :  it  is  a  secret  I  want  to  tell 
you." 

By  this  time  they  were  alone,  and  letting  Bea 
trice's  hands  go,  Claude  put  his  own  in  his  pockets, 
and  stood  facing  her. 

"  What  I  am  going  to  say,  Beatrice,  must  be 
absolutely  sacred — will  you  promise?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  know  that  you  are  my  faith — my  re 
ligion — my  life  ;  that  apart  from  you  I  have  no 
hope.  You  told  me  three  days  ago  that  you 
loved  me  more  than  you  did  your  God.  To-night 
you  have  avoided  me,  and  turned  to  John. 
Have  you  deceived  me  ?  Have  you,  a  Christian, 
told  me,  an  unbeliever,  an  untruth  ?  This  is  not 
polite,  is  it  ?  It  is  even  a  little  brutal — I  should 
be  more  civil  and  say  '  Have  you  been  mistaken  in 
your  feelings  ?  '  But  when  a  man's  whole  life  is 
at  stake,  he  cannot  mince  matters.  I  do  not 
want  an  answer  now,  you  are  not  fit  to  give  it' — • 
you  are  trembling  and  angry  because  I  have  hurt 
you  ;  but  I  want  you  to  think  it  over  calmly  and 
carefully,  and  tell  me  to-morrow.  My  darling  !  " 
drawing  her  close  to  him ;  "  be  careful,  do  not 
fasten  your  affections  on  John,  it  would  only 
annoy  him.  Will  you  forgive  me  this  plain 
speaking?" 

Beatrice's  eyes  were  flashing,  and  she  tried  to 
push  him  away  ;  but  he  took  her  hands  and 
clasped  them  fast  in  one  of  his,  and  with  his 
other  arm  he  held  her  still. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  345 

"  Do  you  think  I  will  let  you  stand  off  and 
quarrel  with  me?"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was 
wonderfully  sweet.  "You  must  speak  where  you 
are — where  you  can  feel  each  throb  of  my  heart, 
and  use  them  to  punctuate  your  words.  I  have 
hurt  you." 

"Cruelly!  how  could  you  hurt  me  more  than 
to  think  that  I  have  told  you  an  untruth — that  I 
would  love  John  against  his  will — that  I  could 
love  him  save  as  a  brother  !  I  almost  hate  you  for 
it ;  and  you  must  let  me  go." 

"  Not  yet ;  not  until  I  have  told  you  one  more 
thing.  I  know  that  I  am  not  worthy  to  approach 
you — that  you  are  far  above  me  in  every  way — 
in  all  the  best  things  in  life — but  I  know,  too,  that 
no  being  in  all  the  universe  can  love  you  as  I  love 
you.  There  is  no  wrong  you  could  do — no  sin 
you  could  commit  that  I  would  not  forgive  ;  and 
loving  you  in  this  way — a  sinful  way,  you  think — 
I  will  yet  rather  set  you  free,  than  cause  you  one 
moment's  annoyance,  even.  In  short — I  lay  my 
life  down  before  you — what  will  you  do  with 
it  ?"  Beatrice's  head  had  drooped,  and  her  hands 
were  clinging  to  his  now,  instead  of  being  held. 

"What  will  you  do  with  it,  dear?"  he  went 
on.  "  Will  you  drop  it  in  the  roadside  dust  to 
perish  ?  " 

"  O  Claude,  you  know  that  what  I  told  you 
the  other  day  is  true  !  It  is  my  love  that  is  sin 
ful  ;  and  that  is  why  it  is  a  pain — that  is  why  I 
can  find  no  rest  in  it." 


346  JOHN  PAGET. 

"How  is  it  sinful?" 

"It  is  not  true  to  my  Faith.  Loving  you,  how 
could  I  also  love  your  bitter  enemy  and  give  him 
my  life  ?  You  are  Christ's  enemy,  and  I  am  not 
loyal.  All  the  time  I  feel  that  there  is  a  bar  be 
tween  us — that  there  is  something  missing  from 
you  and  your  love.  It  troubles  me, it  pains  me; 
and  John  is  the  only  one  I  could  have  asked 
about  it." 

"  If  John  should  tell  you  to  give  me  up,  what 
would  you  do?" 

"I  should  die." 

"  And  what  good  would  that  do,  save  to  make 
me  a  castaway?  " 

"You  could  solve  it  all  by  simply  saying  I  be 
lieve." 

"  I  believe,"  Claude  said  quietly. 

The  girl's  whole  being  seemed  to  stand  still  as 
he  spoke  ;  her  hands  grew  cold  in  his,  and  he 
could  not  feel  that  she  even  breathed. 

"  I  believe,"  he  repeated. 

She  pushed  him  from  her,  "  Honest  unbelief 
is  better  than  blasphemy ! "  she  said,  while  her 
eyes  flashed. 

Claude  smiled.  "  I  only  wanted  to  '  solve 
it  all'  for  you,  dear,"  he  said,  "  in  order  that 
you  might  sleep.  I  take  it  back,  and  am  an 
honest  unbeliever  still.  You  must  go  to  bed 
now.  You  will  remember  all  that  I  have  said, 
and  will  you  forgive  me  sufficiently  to  say  good 
night  ?  " 


JOHN  FACET.  347 

"Yes." 

"  Good-night,  then."  And  ringing  for  the  ser 
vants,  he  led  her  to  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"Good-night,"  she  said  gently,  but  her  hands 
and  her  lips  were  as  cold  as  ice,  and  her  eyes 
looked  faraway. 


XXV. 

"  Between  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a  star, 

'Twixt  night  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge. 
How  little  do  we  know  that  which  we  are  ! 

How  less  what  we  may  be  !     The  eternal  surge 
Of  time  and  tide  rolls  on,  and  bears  afar 

Our  bubbles  ;  as  the  old  burst,  new  emerge, 
Lashed  from  the  foam  of  ages." 

CLAUDE  had  put  an  insuperable  barrier  be 
tween  Beatrice  and  John,  and  John  now 
waited  in  vain  for  any  appeal  from  the  girl.  He 
had  written  her  in  answer  to  her  letter  that  he 
would  come,  and  that  she  then  could  talk  to  him 
of  her  troubles,  but  she  sought  no  interview.  In 
stead,  Claude  came  to  him  and  said  that  all  had 
been  arranged  ;  that  he  had  no  intention  what 
ever  of  touching  Beatrice's  faith,  and  that  if  he 
took  any  steps  in  the  matter,  it  would  be  in  the 
direction  of  Christianity. 

"  You  may  trust  her  to  me,"  he  finished,  "  feel 
ing  that  you  have  left  her  to  do  missionary 
work." 

And  John  did  not  answer. 

Very  gradually  it  dawned  on  Beatrice  that 
John's  sudden  move  South  was  to  meet  an  epi 
demic.  She  had  heard  the  talk  of  fever  as  in  a 
dream  at  first;  then  she  began  to  read  the  papers 

348 


JOHN  PA  GET.  349 

and  connect  it  with  John.  The  reports  were  very 
meager,  and  the  hope  was  that,  beginning  so  late, 
it  would  not  do  much  harm.  But  her  eyes  once 
opened,  she  went  to  Marjorie. 

"  Is  John  going  South  on  account  of  the  fever  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  He  thinks  that  he  may  go  to  offer  his  services, 
that  is,  if  anyone  is  needed,"  Marjorie  answered 
cautiously. 

"  That  must  be  what  he  is  going  for,"  Beatrice 
insisted  ;  "  because  he  did  not  intend  going  South 
until  he  had  been  ordained  priest." 

"  He  may  prefer  being  ordained  in  his  own 
diocese,"  Marjorie  suggested.  "  But  why  do  you 
not  ask  him  ?  "  She  followed  this  advice,  and  at 
lunch  that  day  she  asked  John  when  he  would  go. 

"  On  next  Wednesday,"  he  answered.  "  I  have 
agreed  to  wait  and  go  with  the  family  from  here 
to  New  York,  on  your  way  to  the  Adirondacks. 
Aunt  Claudia  thinks  that  she  must  see  to  my 
outfit  herself." 

"And  are  you  going  because  of  the  fever?" 
looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

By  tacit  consent  they  had  kept  this  from  her, 
and  there  was  a   moment's  pause   before  John 
answered  : 
"  "Yes,  Beatrice." 

"  Not  truly,  Mr.  Paget?"  And  Ted  Dennis,  who 
was  there  at  lunch,  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  Fever  does  not  seem  so  bad  to  a  Southern 
man  as  it  does  to  you,  Mr,  Dennis,"  John  an- 


35°  JOHN  PA  GET. 

swered  ;  "  but  I  do  not  know  that  I  would  feel  so 
careless  about  your  diseases  of  diphtheria  and 
pneumonia.  They  seem  quite  awful  to  me." 

"Are  your  family  down  there?" 

"All  the  people  I  have  in  this  world  are  at  this 
table,"  John  answered,  "  save  some  distant  cou 
sins,  and  they  are  not  in  the  fever  district." 

"  I  think  he  is  very  foolish,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
said.  "  I  see  no  duty  in  it." 

"  Save  the  duty  of  helping  my  fellow-creatures. 
My  ties  are  so  slight,  my  duties  so  few,  that  I  am 
the  very  one  who  ought  to  go.  I  have  given  no 
hostages  to  fortune,  you  see." 

"  Still,  life  is  rather  a  nice  thing  to  have,"  Ted 
Dennis  suggested. 

"  I  count  it  a  great  blessing,"  John  answered. 

"And  yet  you  throw  yours  away?"  Marjorie 
said. 

"Not  necessarily;  and  even  if  I  succumb,  you 
could  not  say  that  it  was  thrown  away,  Miss  Van 
Kuyster.  Life  is  a  loan  that  we  ought  to  use  for 
the  benefit  of  our  fellow-creatures,  and  if  we  let 
it  go  in  the  service  of  humanity,  then  it  has  been 
honestly  spent.  To  look  on  it  as  a  thing  that  be 
longs  to  us — as  a  thing  to  be  only  enjoyed,  and 
to  be  spent  only  as  we  like,  is  a  great  mistake. 
For  me,  I  am  strong  to  help  the  sufferers  phys 
ically,  and  commissioned  to  help  them  spiritually. 
I  have  no  one  dependent  on  me.  There  is  no 
glory  in  my  going,  for  I  can  see  no  escape  for 
myself.  Now,  Kinsey " 


JOHN  FACET.  351 

"  Does  he  want  to  go  ?  "  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
asked. 

"  Very  much  indeed,  but  I  have  persuaded  him 
that  it  is  not  his  duty.  He  is  responsible  for  a 
great  deal,  and  must  look  to  it.  An  epidemic  in 
the  tenement  district,  now,  would  be  his  duty." 

"  And  mine?  "  Claude  asked,  raising  his  eye 
brows. 

"Yes." 

"You  think  my  life  has  been  lent  to  me  to  be 
spent  on  the  scum  of  foreign  nations  ?  " 

"They  are  human — immortal." 

"They  may  be  all  that,  but  not  my  duty;  and 
I  think  I  should  go  to  the  Adirondacks  all  the 
same.  I  would  have  ties,  you  know." 

"  It  puts  matrimony  in  quite  a  new  light,"  Ted 
Dennis  said;  "  I  must  think  it  over." 

"  It  gives  a  new  meaning  to  the  name  '  a  man 
of  the  world,'"  John  suggested.  "You  belong 
to  the  world,  Mr.  Dennis." 

"  Thanks  ;  I  think  I  must  hunt  up  a  Mrs.  Den 
nis,  and  belong  to  her.  Anything,  even  matri 
mony,  is  better  than  epidemics  and  slums.  And 
you,  Miss  Van  Kuyster,  they'll  be  roping  you 
in  next  ;  will  you  not  turn  in  the  direction  of 
matrimony?  " 

Marjorie  laughed.  "Knowing  men,  I  believe 
I  prefer  slums  and  epidemics,"  she  said.  "There 
is  a  certain  amount  of  glory  in  fighting  death ; 
and  if  you  die,  there  is  peace ;  neither  of  these  ob 
tain  in  matrimony,  for  I  have  watched  carefully." 


35  2  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  I  yearn  for  glory," 
Dennis  answered  ;  "  and,  for  peace,  there  is  the 
club." 

"Does  your  brother  mean  what  he  says?" 
Dennis  asked  of  Claude  later. 

"  Every  word." 

"  No  hereditary  ansinity  ?  " 

"Not  a  bit." 

"Money?" 

"  Plenty  of  it,  and  a  beautiful  place  in  the  South." 

"  What  has  made  him  so  peculiar  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  clergyman." 

"  I  saw  that;  but  clergymen,  even,  do  not 
usually  kill  themselves  in  this  wild  way." 

"  My  brother  is  either  a  survival — or  a  new 
type." 

"  God  forbid  !  "  Dennis  said  earnestly.  "  I  could 
stand  one — a  survival ;  but  to  have  a  new  type  like 
that  to  come  into  the  nineteenth  century — it 
would  be — well,  it  would  be  unusual.  You  know 
what  I  mean,  Van  Kuyster — that  it  would  inter 
fere  with  a  great  many  pleasant  things,  don't  you 
know  ?  " 

"  No  one  better." 

"  Think  of  Martin  Kinsey  wanting  to  go  South," 
Marjorie  said,  as  she  and  John  and  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  took  their  seats  on  one  of  the  broad 
verandas. 

"  He  is  a  fine  fellow,"  John  answered.     "And 


JOHN  PA  GET.  353 

you  cannot  know  him  all  in  a  moment ;  there  are 
depths  in  Kinsey  that  surprise  one." 

"  I  think  that  you  have  developed  him,"  Mar- 
jorie  said  ;  "he  was  only  a  kind-hearted  crank 
when  you  took  hold  of  him." 

"  I  do  not  agree  to  that,  Miss  Van  Kuyster  ; 
still,  if  it  were  so,  it  is  in  his  favor  that  he  allows 
himself  to  be  influenced  ;  not  many  people  will  go 
even  that  far,  especially  if  it  means  the  least  self- 
denial." 

"  Granted  !"  And  Marjorie  held  up  her  hands, 
laughing.  "  I  would  not  argue  with  you  for  the 
world,  Mr.  Paget.  You  destroy  the  most  carefully 
arranged  and  comfortable  systems  by  some  quix 
otic  thrust  that  no  one  expects.  Things  that  we 
weak  mortals  think  essential,  you  ask  us  without 
the  least  hesitation  to  put  aside.  Fancy  living  on 
the  plan  that  life  is  lent  us  simply  for  the  benefit 
of  others — why  it  would  destroy  the  very  founda 
tions  of  social  life.  If  you  should  bring  me  to  be 
lieve  that,  I  should  return  the  loan  immediately 
from  the  top  of  Brooklyn  bridge." 

John  looked  at  her  for  a  moment.  "  I  think  you 
could  be  trusted  to  lend  your  life  out,"  he  said, 
"  and  that  without  any  interest.  If  you  will  for 
give  me,  I  will  say  that  I  think  you  could  be  very 
noble.  I  have  found  you  to  be  unselfish,  you 
see  ;  and  that  is  a  rare  quality  to  come  to  one 
naturally." 

"  Thank  you,  but  you  do  not  know  me,"  Mar 
jorie  answered,  while  the  blood  crept  up  her 


354  JOHN  PA  GET. 

cheeks.  "  I  am  good  on  a  spurt — I  might  even 
get  excitement  out  of  the  danger  and  work  of  an 
epidemic  ;  I  might  even  nurse  lepers,  if  the  world 
looked  on  ;  but  to  sacrifice  myself  day  after  day — 
to  plod  through  a  level  round  of  uninteresting 
duties  without  any  audience  ;  to  live  what  might 
be  called  a  gray  life — a  monotonous  life — I  could 
not  do  that ;  a  month  of  it  would  send  me  to  the 
bridge.  Therefore,  you  see,  I  am  neither  unself 
ish  or  noble  even  potentially." 

"  A  gray  life  would  be  the  hardest  to  live," 
John  said  ;  "  but  I  have  faith  that  you  could  do  it. 
A  gray  day  has  a  very  brilliant  close,  some 
times." 

"  That  is  poetry,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said  ;  "  the 
actual  thing  is  prose — dismal  prose.  For  me,  I 
would  not  dream  of  attempting  anything  of  the 
kind.  I  see  no  use  in  it  ;  I  see  no  use  in  any  of 
this  hunting  for  work,  these  humanitarian  fads. 
What  I  cannot  get  out  of  doing,  that  I  accept  as 
a  duty ;  but  nothing  short  of  necessity  can  make 
me  do  it." 

"  I  may  be  very  rude,  Aunt  Claudia,  but  I  do 
not  believe  you.  I  will  insist  that  you  always  do 
your  duty  as  you  see  it  ;  I  will  not  allow  you  to 
destroy  my  ideal  aunt,  who  is  as  good  as  she 
is  beautiful  "—and  leaning  over,  John  raised  her 
hand  to  his  lips. 

"  It  is  well  you  have  only  four  days  more  with 
your  ideal,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  answered.  "  I  may 
keep  up  the  illusion  for  that  length  of  time." 


JOHN  PAGET.  355 

"  Four  days,"  Marjorie  repeated.  "I  am  sorry 
to  go — I  love  the  sea." 

"  You  have  said  that  you  love  the  Adirondacks 
too." 

"  Yes ;  but  it  will  be  bad  to  think  of  Mr.  Paget 
down  in  the  heat,  fighting  a  pestilence,"  Mar 
jorie  answered.  "  It  will  make  us  feel  so  poor, 
and  mean,  and  low ;  even  the  prospect  makes  me 
uncomfortable." 

"John  is  positively  unkind,"  and  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  rose  hastily,  spilling  all  her  embroidery 
things ;  "  where  is  the  Christianity  in  making 
one's  whole  family  miserable?" 

John  picked  up  her  things  putting  them  care 
fully  into  the  little  silken-lined  basket,  then 
looked  after  her  vanishing  figure  sadly. 

"  She  loves  you,"  Marjorie  said,  as  if  in  excuse. 

"  She  knows  perfectly  well  that  I  go  gladly," 
John  answered.  "  It  is  no  sacrifice  to  me  ;  I  want, 
to  go.  I  will  confess  to  you" — looking  straight 
into  Marjorie's  eyes — "  I  am  running  away  from 
the  gray  life,  and  this  epidemic  is  my  Brooklyn 
bridge.  Do  not  think  of  me  as  a  martyr,  but 
pray  that,  if  it  be  God's  will  that  I  live,  I  may 
live  up  to  what  I  know  to  be  my  duty.  You 
believe  me  ?  " 

Marjorie  shook  her  head. 

"You  ought  to,"  John  went  on  ;  "you  opened 
my  eyes." 

"  And  was  a  fool  for  my  pains." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  shall  always  be  grateful 


356  JOHN  PA  GET. 

to  you.  And  you  will  love  Beatrice  and  be  kind 
to  her,  and  you  will  put  some  love  into  Aunt 
Claudia's  life;  her  heart  is  starved,  that  is  what 
ails  her.  And  above  all,  do  not  think  of  me  and 
the  epidemic.  I  am  sorry  Beatrice  found  it 
out." 

"  So  am  I ;  I  am  afraid  she  will  do  something 
desperate." 

John  shook  his  head.  "  She  is  too  timid  and 
sensitive  for  that.  I  think  she  could  stand  still 
and  die  without  one  plea  for  mercy,  but  she  would 
never  dare  Brooklyn  bridge.  However,  we  are 
taking  trouble  on  trust.  She  loves  Claude,  and 
my  letters  shall  be  disarmingly  cheerful,  and  care 
fully  fumigated.  Don't  be  afraid." 

Beatrice,  meanwhile,  sat  alone  in  the  deserted 
schoolroom,  with  her  hands  locked  together,  look 
ing  straight  out  to  sea. 

"  I  think  it  a  good  idea,  our  going  away  to 
gether,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said  to  Claude  when 
they  were  settled  on  the  boat.  "  To  have  told 
John  good-by  in  cold  blood,  here,  would  have 
been  most  uncomfortable." 

"  You  put  it  mildly,"  Claude  said.  "  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion,  however,  that  in  order  to 
live  in  peace  there  must  be  similarity — all  must 
be  Christian,  or  all  must  be  heathen.  There  was 
a  most  comfortable  and  rational  unanimity  among 
us  and  our  circle  of  friends,  until  this  eruption  of 
early  Christians.  Marjorie  and  I  were  drifting 


JOHN  PA  GET.  357 

into  a  placid  alliance,  when  I  fell  violently 
in  love,  and  she  had  a  new  standard  of  excel 
lence  set  up  before  her  that  made  it  necessary  for 
her  to  reacPjust  all  her  valuations.  It  was  un 
fortunate."" 

"  You  are  still  violently  in  love,  however?  " 

"Of  course;  but  moods  are  difficult — religious 
moods  impossible.  Grant  Christanity  one  propo 
sition — less  than  that,  one  possibility — and  death 
is  the  only  thing  that  will  end  the  turmoil  and 
struggle  into  which  one  is  plunged." 

"  Are  you  struggling  ?  " 

"  Only  with  Beatrice.  God  forbid  that  I  should 
touch  Christianity.  Beatrice  by  her  lone  self  is 
enough  to  keep  me  busy  for  years.  Damn  Miss 
Grigsby  !  " 

"  I  hope  that  this  change  will  help  Beatrice  to 
settle  down  to  common  sense  once  more,"  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  said  with  a  yawn.  "  I  must  confess 
that  for  me  the  play  has  not  been  worth  the 
candle." 

"  My  life  would  be  a  dreadful  blank  without 
the  child,"  Claude  answered,  pulling  his  mustache 
gloomily. 

"  Do  you  contemplate  letting  her  go  ?" 
"Not  for  a  moment,  actually;    but  she  eludes 
me  now  :    I  suppose  I  must  say,  spiritually.     She 
has  never,  since  I  have  known  her,  looked  at  me 
without  a  question  of  doubt  in  her  eyes." 

"At  all  events,  it  has  been  a  valuable  ex 
perience,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  said. 


358  JOHN  FACET. 

"  As  valuable  as  a  sword-cut  given  to  teach  you 
how  a  wound  feels." 

New  York  was  not  very  hot,  but  it  was  dusty, 
and  the  fashionable  part  of  it,  being  still  unin 
habited,  looked  dreary.  Nobody  said  so,  but  the 
whole  party  felt  immensely  depressed. 

For  the  few  days  that  they  were  to  be  there, 
Marjorie  was  to  stay  at  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's,  and 
at  Claude's  request  she  made  it  her  business 
to  keep  Beatrice  employed,  and  if  possible, 
interested.  Claude  went  so  far  as  to  suggest  an 
immediate  marriage,  but  Beatrice  looked  so 
distressed  and  terrified  that  he  withdrew  the 
proposition  instantly. 

John's  outfit  was  of  course  the  great  object,  as 
he  was  taking  all  sorts  of  supplies  ;  and  the  talk 
was  all  about  those  who  were  going,  for  both 
Protestant  and  Roman  Catholic  Sisters  were 
under  orders  to  go,  besides  several  nurses.  Mar 
tin  Kinsey  followed  John  morning,  noon,  and 
night,  in  a  faithful,  doglike  way  that  was  touch 
ing,  and  that  was  encouraged  by  John,  as  his 
presence  prevented  any  possibility  of  confidential 
talk  with  anyone.  But  in  spite  of  all  precautions, 
the  last  of  the  three  days  of  preparation  was  a 
great  strain,  and  John  and  Claude  agreed  that 
the  farewell  should  be  brief  to  the  verge  of  neg 
lect.  The  plan  was  simple.  Instead  of  leaving 
by  the  night  train  as  he  had  intended,  John 
would  leave  by  the  afternoon  train,  and  go  from 
the  lunch  table  without  telling  of  the  change  in 


JOHN  FACET.  359 

his  plans.  It  was  carried  out,  and  Claude  came 
back  with  the  news  that  John  had  been  obliged 
to  go  without  coming  home  again.  It  was  a  lit 
tle  blank,  but  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  and  Marjorie 
agreed  privately  that  the  arrangement  was 
wise. 

"  I  have  caught  the  enthusiasm  at  last,"  Mar 
jorie  said  to  Martin  Kinsey,  who  had  breakfasted 
with  them  the  morning  after  John  left.  "  I  am 
almost  longing  to  follow  Mr.  Paget's  example." 

"  It  is  much  harder  for  me  to  stay  here,"  Kin 
sey  answered  simply. 

"  Let  us  go,"  Beatrice  said  quietly  ;  "  do  not 
let  us  ask  anyone,  but  just  go — I  am  sure  we 
could  help." 

"  You  bad  child,"  Marjorie  said,  laughing. 
"Could  you  reconcile  it  to  your  strict  little  con 
science  to  run  away?  " 

"  I  do  not  know — I  might." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  very  wrong,"  Kinsey  said 
gravely.  Waters  entered  with  a  letter  for  Bea 
trice. 

"  What  a  portentous  looking  missive  " — and 
Marjorie  took  it  from  the  waiter.  "  What  a  lot 
of  purple  wax  is  in  the  seal  of  it !  " 

For  an  instant  Beatrice  looked  at  the  letter 
without  touching  it.  "From  the  Mother  !"  she 
said  in  a  breathless  undertone. 

"  Do  not  you  want  it  ?  "  Marjorie  asked,  "  or 
is  the  honor  enough  ?  " 

Beatrice   sprang   up.      "  It  is  more   than   life 


360  JOHN  PA  GET. 

to  me,"  she  said,  and  taking  it  quickly,  she  left 
the  room. 

Locking  her  door,  she  knelt  down  by  the  bed 
and  laid  the  letter  down  in  front  of  her.  She 
clasped  her  hands,  and  lifting  her  face  she  prayed  : 

"  Father,  give  me  strength  to  obey,  and  patience 
to  endure,  for  the  sake  of  Jesus,  Thy  Son." 

Then  she  laid  her  face  down  on  the  letter,  and 
sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  She  knew 
that  the  Mother  had  sent  a  decision. 

The  sobs  ceased  gradually,  and  still  on  her 
knees  she  opened  the  letter.  It  was  very  short. 

MY  CHILD  :  for  whom  I  have  never  ceased  to  pray,  in  the 
name  of  God  I  command  you  to  flee  from  temptation — from 
certain  spiritual  death.  Have  all  my  love  and  teaching  gone 
for  nothing,  that  you  hesitate  ?  Will  your  life  be  lonely — 
think  of  Christ  in  the  desert.  Will  you  suffer — think  of 
Christ  on  the  cross.  Would  you  give  your  life  to  an  unbe 
liever  ?  would  you  commit  the  sin  of  Judas  and  betray  your 
Master  ?  My  child,  come  to  me  ;  your  place  is  here  in  my 
heart.  The  dove  has  no  safety  among  the  eagles  of  the 
world  ;  birds  of  prey  have  no  mercy.  Oh,  little  dove,  come 
home  !  Here  is  love,  and  peace,  and  life  eternal. 

MOTHER. 

The  girl  stretched  her  arms  out  across  the  bed 
and  laid  her  face  down  on  the  open  letter.  "  You 
have  listened  to  the  hum  of  the  world,"  she 
whispered.  "  You  have  heard  far  off  the  cry  of 
pain  that  has  no  answer,  the  echo  of  problems 
that  none  can  solve — you  have  put  your  lips  to 
the  cup  of  life,  nothing  will  be  the  same." 


JOHN  PA  GET.  361 

The  whisper  ceased.  She  seemed  to  be  look 
ing  into  Claude's  shadowy  blue  eyes. 

At  lunch  Beatrice  asked  many  questions  about 
John's  route — about  when  they  could  hear  from 
him,  and  many  other  things  of  which  she  had 
never  seemed  to  think  before ;  and  after  lunch, 
when  Claude  had  gone  to  make  some  final  pur 
chases  for  the  Adirondacks,  she  asked  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  if  she  might  go  for  a  walk  with  Billings. 

"  Of  course,  my  dear,"  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
looked  at  her  in  a  relieved  way ;  she  was  taking 
John's  going  so  quietly.  "  And,  Billfngs,"  to  the 
woman,  "  when  Miss  Wilton  seems  tired  call  a 
cab ;  do  not  be  out  later  than  six  o'clock." 

"  We  will  go  to  the  bank,"  Beatrice  said  when 
they  were  in  the  street.  At  the  bank  they  took 
a  cab  and  drove  down  to  the  shops  ;  here  Beatrice 
gave  Billings  some  money. 

"You  said  that  you  needed  aprons,  Billings; 
you  had  better  get  them  here,  for  we  go  away 
the  day  after  to-morrow,  you  know,"  and  Billings 
being  occupied,  Beatrice  made  her  own  pur 
chases  and  had  them  put  into  the  cab.  Next  they 
stopped  at  a  bric-a-brac  shop  near  the  junction 
of  Fifth  Avenue  and  Twenty-third  Street;  and 
Beatrice  told  the  woman  that  she  need  not  get 
out.  Once  in  the  shop,  Beatrice  walked  through 
to  Broadway  and  into  a  railway  ticket  office. 
She  asked  many  questions,  and  bought  a  ticket 
and  sleeping  berth  for  the  next  evening's  train. 
If  her  ticket's  time  ran  out  before  the  end  of  her 


362  JOHN  FACET. 

journey,  she  could  pay  the  rest  of  the  way.  She 
hurried  back  to  Billings. 

After  dinner,  she  seemed  to  Claude  to  have 
gone  back  to  her  old  self  of  the  days  before  Miss 
Grigsby's  revelations,  and  he  felt  that  with  John's 
departure  all  trouble  had  ceased.  Mrs.  Van  Kuy- 
ster  had  been  mistaken  in  thinking  that  Beatrice's 
creed  was  in  her  flesh  and  blood — and  he  had 
been  right  in  thinking  that  love  would  hold  her. 

"  If  I  should  die,  Claude,  would  you  think  that 
I  had  been  annihilated?"  she  asked,  as  they  sat 
together  in  the  study. 

"  I  would  rather  think  that  than  anything  else, 
dear." 

"  But  it  would  hurt  me  if  you  thought  that," 
she  went  on  ;  "  for  then  you  would  not  know  that 
sometimes  I  might  be  near  you.  I  should  ask  to 
come  back  as  your  guardian  angel ;  and  whenever 
you  did  a  good  deed  I  should  be  happy." 

"  I  will  believe  that,  then,"  he  answered ;  "  any 
thing  in  the  world  to  make  you  happy." 

"  And  your  unbelief  is  honest,  Claude  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  honest,  dear." 

"Then  God  will  'find  some  way  to  give  you 
light.  After  all,  to  be  true  is  the  great  thing." 
Then  more  slowly,  "  You  said  once  that  I  had 
some  .money — have  I  spent  it  all?  I  drew  a  lot 
this  afternoon.  Were  you  in  earnest  about  its 
being  really  mine?  " 

"  In  the  soberest  kind  of  earnest." 

"Have  I  as  much  as  one  thousand  dollars ayear?" 


JOHN  PA  GET.  363 

"  Much  more  than  that." 

"  May  I  give  Miss  Grigsby  a  thousand  dollars 
every  Thanksgiving  Day  ?  You  said  that  you 
would  endow  her  " — moving  so  as  to  look  into  his 
face — "  but  she  would  not  take  it  from  you,  you 
know  ;  may  I  do  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  my  darling,  anything  in  the  world 
to  make  you  happy." 

"And  may  I  give  a  little,  whatever  you  think, 
to  the  nurseries  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Thank  you.  You  have  always  been  so  good 
to  me,  and  have  made  me  so  happy."  She  was 
silent  for  a  moment,  then  she  said  as  if  to  herself, 
"  God  will  forgive  me  for  loving  an  unbeliever, 
for  I  did  not  know  it." 

"  Child,"  and  Claude  lifted  her  face  to  look  in 
it,  "  it  is  foolish  to  think  that  you  have  sinned  in 
loving  me  ;  if  your  God  is  a  God,  he  himself 
must  love  me,  for  he  made  me." 

"Of  course  he  loves  you  ;  but  that  is  quite  dif 
ferent  from  my  having  loved  you  better  than  him." 

"  '  Having  loved,'  "  Claude  repeated  ;  "  is  your 
love  for  me  in  the  past  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not ;  but  God  will  forgive  me  if 
I  do  my  best  to  yield  it  up  to  him." 

Claude  drew  a  long  breath.  "We  will  talk  it 
all  over,  dear,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  do  my  best  to 
think  with  you  ;  "  but  in  the  sacred  recesses  of 
his  own  room  he  said  more  than  once,  "  Damn 
Miss  Grigsby !" 


JOHN  FACET. 

All  night  long  Beatrice  was  busy;  at  dawn  she 
went  to  bed,  and  when  Billings  came  she  was 
sleeping  like  a  little  child.  All  day  she  went 
about  as  usual,  save  that  she  sought  Claude  more 
than  she  had  done  of  late,  much  to  his  content 
ment.  Then  in  the  dusk,  when  Waters  and 
Buttons  were  busy  in  the  pantry,  when  Bil 
lings  and  Christine  were  gossiping  until  they 
should  be  rung  for,  when  Marjorie  and  Mrs. 
Van  Kuyster  were  taking  a  little  rest  before 
dressing  for  dinner,  and  Claude  smoking  quietly 
in  the  club — a  nun  stole  down  the  broad  stair 
way  and  out  of  the  front  door.  The  bag  she  car 
ried  seemed  rather  heavy,  but  at  the  corner  she 
got  a  cab,  and  gave  the  order,  "  Desbrosses  Street 
Ferry." 

Christine  was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to 
Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's  hair,  when  Billings  appeared 
with  a  sealed  note. 

"  I  found  this  on  Miss  Wilton's  table,  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster,"  she  said. 

"The  catastrophe  has  come,"  was  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster's  instantaneous  thought — but  she 
opened  the  note  quietly. 

DEAR  AUNT  CLAUDIA  : 

The  Mother  wrote  me  that  I  must  come  away.  My  own 
conscience  said  the  same.  I  am  safe  ;  do  not  hunt  for 
me — do  not  let  any  trouble  be  made.  In  the  late  mail 
Claude  will  get  a  letter. 

BEATRICE, 


JOHN  PA  GET.  365 

She  put  the  note  back  into  the  envelope,  then 
looked  at  herself  critically  in  the  glass. 

"  This  puff  of  my  hair  is  a  little  too  high,  Chris 
tine,"  she  said.  Then  as  she  sat  down  that  the 
defect  might  be  remedied,  she  said  to  Billings  : 
u  Finish  Miss  Wilton's  packing,  and  bring  me 
her  keys.  After  dinner  Waters  will  pay  you  up 
to  date,  and  one  month's  wages  extra,  for  I  will 
not  need  your  services  after  to-night." 

Downstairs  she  found  Claude  alone  in  the 
study,  and  gave  him  the  note  to  read. 

"  She  has  done  it  as  quietly  as  possible,"  she 
said,  "and  there  must  be  no  talk.  She  has  gone 
to  the  Convent,  of  course." 

"  She  has  gone  to  John " 

"  Hush  !  she  must  be  gone  to  the  Convent — she 
is  our  kinswoman." 


XXVI. 

"  Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Never  more 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore, — 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  he  hears  that  name  of  thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two." 

DOWN  in  the  desolation  of  the  fever-stricken 
city,  when  in  the  dead  silence  a  footfall 
sounded  like  the  tramp  of  doom,  and  the  rum 
ble  of  the  dead-wagons  echoed  ceaselessly,  a 
little  band  fought  desperately,  hand  to  hand 
with  Death.  Through  the  burning  days  when 
the  arching  sky  looked  hard  as  adamant,  and 
the  round,  red  sun  glared  down  without  the 
shadow  of  a  cloud — through  the  long,  close 
nights  made  lurid  with  the  light  of  cleansing 
fires,  those  faithful  men  and  women  strove 
against  relentless  death.  Now  and  again  one 
dropped,  and  another  paused  to  dig  the  hasty 
grave  ;  then  without  a  word  the  ranks  closed  up, 

366 


JOHN  PA  GET.  367 

and  the  awful  war  went  on.  Shoulder  to  shoul 
der  they  fought  and  died,  bound  close  by  a  com 
mon  cause,  led  on  by  a  cross  held  high  in 
wounded  hands. 

How  small  and  far  away  the  world  seemed 
now,  when  a  day  stretched  into  a  lifetime,  and 
the  murky  nights  were  endless,  and  the  angel  of 
death  so  busy  ! 

In  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  on  a  doorstep  near 
one  of  the  red  tar  fires  built  up  and  down  the 
empty  streets,  a  woman  was  seated.  She  was 
known  in  the  city  as  the  "  Gray  Sister,"  because  of 
the  dress  she  wore.  By  her  side  crouched  a  large 
red  setter,  who  watched  her  with  brown,  wistful 
eyes,  begging  with  his  paw  on  her  knee,  some 
times,  or  licking  her  tired  hands.  She  looked 
very  weary  as  she  leaned  against  the  railing  of 
the  steps,  with  the  gray  hood  of  her  cloak  fallen 
back  from  her  head,  and  her  strong  white  hands 
dropped  at  her  sides. 

A  long  way  off  she  heard  a  step  approaching — 
quick,  decided.  How  strange  it  seemed  that  any 
one  lived  in  this  death-hole  who  was  not  worn 
and  weary.  It  must  be  one  of  the  newcomers. 
Did  she  know  that  step  ?  Surely  something  in  it 
spoke  to  her  as  it  came  nearer  and  nearer,  echo 
ing  up  and  down  in  the  empty  cellars,  thrown 
back  and  forth  by  the  desolate  houses.  She  was 
too  tired  to  turn  and  look  ;  if  the  step  was  seek 
ing  her  it  would  find  her. 

It  was  close  beside  her  now ;  it  stopped,  and 


JOHN  PAGET. 

the  dog  growled.  She  must  turn  and  see  who  it 
was  that  she  felt  staring  at  her  in  the  flaring 
light  of  the  tar  fire. 

As  her  look  traveled  up  she  saw  that  it  was  a 
clergyman  ;  then  her  eyes  met  the  eyes  looking 
down  on  her. 

"  Elizabeth  !  " 

Her  look  did  not  waver.  "  John  Paget,"  she 
said,  and  rose.  John  steadied  himself  with  one 
.hand  on  the  railing  of  the  step,  and  put  out  the 
other  to  stop  the  woman,  who  seemed  to  be  mov 
ing  away. 

"Wait,  Elizabeth." 

"  Not  now,  I  am  too  weary." 

"  Where  shall  we  meet  again  ?  " 

"  If  you  have  come  to  fight  this  death," 
she  said,  "  we  shall  meet  everywhere.  Come, 
Wamba." 

"  Wamba  ?  " 

"Yes,  the  faithful  fool."  Then  she  went  away, 
and  John  stood  and  watched  her  until  the 
shadows  swallowed  her  up. 

Swiftly  and  surely  the  struggle  absorbed  the 
newcomers  ;  no  change  from  day  to  night  was 
heeded,  and  time  seemed  to  cease.  There  were 
headquarters  for  food  and  coffins,  and  lodgings 
where  the  workers  slept  whenever  a  spare  mo 
ment  could  be  taken.  A  young  physician  shared 
John's  quarters,  a  kindly  fellow,  who  would  pur 
sue  John  and  drag  him  in  for  a  little  rest,  and 
brew  for  him  tea  or  coffee. 


JOHK  PA  GET.  369 

"  It  is  all  very  well  to  help  the  poor  creatures," 
he  said,  "  but  I  doubt  if  there  is  one  in  the  whole 
city  who  is  worth  your  dying  for.  If  you  are 
anxious  for  a  job,  however,  there  is  an  awful 
case  at  210  Fourteenth  Street,"  he  went  on  as  he 
poured  John's  coffee  into  a  tin  cup  and  gave  him 
a  crust  of  bread  to  stir  it  with.  "  It  is  hopeless, 
and  I  left  him  raving  and  blaspheming.  I 
promised  Father  O'Bryan  I'd  send  help  ;  he  is 
worn  out.  You  go,  and  I  will  hunt  for  the  Gray 
Sister;  she  has  a  wonderfully  quieting  way  with 
her." 

"You  call  her  the  Gray  Sister;  does  she  belong 
to  any  order?" 

"  No,  she  explained  that  she  did  not ;  but  as 
she  has  never  registered  any  name,  and  as  she 
dresses  in  gray,  everybody  calls  her  the  Gray 
Sister.  She  came  alone,  and  if  she  died  this 
minute  her  grave  would  be  nameless.  She  is 
wonderful.  She  has  the  care  of  half  a  dozen 
orphan  children  whose  parents  have  died  in  the 
epidemic,  and  who  cannot  be  sent  out  of  the  city 
now.  I  have  never  even  found  out  where  she  lives. 
I  begged  her  to  tell  me  in  case  she  should  fall 
sick,  but  she  would  not.  She  has  a  big  dog,  and 
this  is  all  that  anyone  knows ;  so  she  goes  by  the 
name  of  the  '  Gray  Sister.'  " 

In  the  midnight  John  knelt  by  the  dying  man. 
He  had  had  a  struggle  to  keep  the  poor  creature 
from  self-destruction,  and  now  with  his  hands 
gripped  hard  by  the  hands  made  strong  by  fever 


37°  JOHN  FACET. 

and  death,  he  felt  almost  too  weary  to  say  the 
prayers  that  had  been  asked  for.  The  words 
came  slowly,  and  with  staring  eyes  the  dying 
man  watched  him,  and  now  and  then  repeated  a 
word.  The  door  opened,  and  looking  up  John 
saw  Elizabeth. 

"You  are  worn  out,"  she  said.  "I  will  finish 
this,"  and  loosing  John's  hands,  she  raised  the 
sick  man  so  that  he  breathed  more  easily. 

John  stood  aside  and  watched  her.  What  skill 
and  tenderness  and  strength  she  showed,  and 
how  gentle  her  voice  and  words  ! 

"  His  soul  is  passing,"  she  said — "  is  gone." 

She  closed  his  eyes,  and  folded  his  hands,  and 
straightened  the  bed.  "Somebody  in  the  world 
has  loved  him  best,"  she  murmured,  "God  com 
fort  them."  One  moment  she  stood  looking 
down  on  the  dead  face.  "  So  often  I  watch 
them,"  she  said;  "no  muscle  moves;  there  is  not 
the  twitching  of  a  nerve  even,  yet  a  change 
comes.  Sometimes  a  light  comes  as  if  they  saw 
a  vision.  So  often  I  watch  them,  I  know  it  is 
only  this  body  that  dies — and  its  woes  die  with- 
it."  She  turned  to  John.  "  Is  it  not  true?" 

"  God  grant  it !  "  he  answered. 

She  drew  the  sheet  up  over  the  dead  man's 
face. 

"  Will  you  report  this  death,  or  shall  I  ?  " 

"  We  will  go  together." 

Outside  the  door  Wamba  joined  them.  "  It  is 
a  dreary  life  you  lead  now,  old  dog,"  she  said,  as 


JOHN  PA  GET.  371 

he  shoved  his  head  under  her  hand,  "  always 
waiting  and  watching  for  death." 

For  some  time  they  walked  in  silence,  then 
near  one  of  the  tar  fires  John  paused. 

"  I  have  much  to  say  to  you,"  he  said;  "will 
you  come  to  my  lodgings,  or  take  me  to  your 
place?  " 

"  Neither;  we  will  sit  here  on  these  steps. 
There  is  no  need  to  report  that  death  until 
daylight." 

She  took  her  seat,  leaning  herhead  back  wearily 
against  the  railing,  as  when  John  first  found  her, 
and  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  leaping  flames.  John 
sat  facing  her,  lower  down,  with  his  elbow  on  the 
step  above  him,  and  his  forehead  on  his  hand.  If 
Elizabeth  looked  down,  his  face  would  be  shaded 
from  her  eyes.  "  You  remember  the  night  that  I 
tried  to  kill  Manuel,"  he  began,  "  and  you  made  the 
boys  tie  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  ;  it  was  for  my  sake  you 
tried  to  kill  him." 

"  And  afterward  I  told  you  that  I  was  ill,  and 
in  the  morning  you  rode  with  me  to  the  edge  of 
the  town  to  see  that  no  harm  befell  me?  I  did 
not  want  to  leave  you  then,  Elizabeth,  and  you 
made  me.  You  said  that  there  were  no  com 
forts,  and  that  it  would  ruin  my  character  to  be 
found  in  your  father's  house.  You  sent  me 
away  Elizabeth." 

"  And  it  broke  your  heart  ?  " 

John  looked  up,  but  her  eyes  were  still  on  the 


372  JOHN  FACET. 

fire,  and  her  lips  were  shut  close  as  he  remembered 
them  so  often  of  old.  What  a  strong  face  it  was  ! 
Too  strong  for  a  woman,  and  handsomer  than  he 
remembered  it.  "You  were  good  to  me,"  he 
went  on  ;  "  nobody  in  all  the  world  has  ever  been 
as  unselfishly  kind  to  me;  and  for  strength  of 
mind  and  character,  I  admire  you  more  than  any 
woman  I  have  ever  seen.  Don't  think  for  one 
moment  that  I  have  forgotten  any  of  your  good 
ness,  Elizabeth,  nor  your  strength  under  tempta 
tions.  It  lives,  and  will  ever  live  in  my  heart." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  I  left  New  York  to  come  and  hunt  for  you, 
and  I  am  telling  you  all  this  because  it  is  a  new 
realization  to  me.  I — Elizabeth,  I  left " 

"  Let  me  tell  it  to  you,"  Elizabeth  interrupted, 
her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  fire.  "  Let  me  be  kind 
to  you  once  more  ;  you  will  not  like  to  say  the 
disagreeable  things  that  must  needs  be  said. 
You  left  me  at  the  edge  of  the  town  with  a  scant 
good-by  because  your  head  ached,  you  said.  I 
did  not  heed  that  much,  for  my  whole  life  had 
been  scant ;  but  I  watched  you  go,  knowing  by 
some  strange  prescience  that  you  were  gone.  You 
were  ill  for  weeks  ;  you  stood  at  the  gates  of 
death.  I  stood  with  you,  for  I  went  there  as  a 
nurse ;  it  was  well,  for  you  called  on  me  incess 
antly.  I  waited  outside  your  door  during  the 
sleep  that  meant  life  or  death  :  you  waked  to  life, 
and  I  left  you.  In  the  sight  of  God  you  were  | 
mine,  but  I  loved  you.  I  left  you  to  a  pure  life 


JOHN  PA  GET.  373 

under  the  influence  of  Mr.  Wilton.  So  strong 
he  was,  so  true,  that  only  to  know  that  he  believed, 
saved  me  from  shipwreck.  God  keep  him  !  From 
behind  the  hedge  I  watched  you  the  first  day  you 
came  out  to  lie  in  the  hammock  under  the  trees. 
I  saw  Mr.  Wilton  sitting  near  you,  and  suddenly 
you  reached  out  your  hand  to  him  and  he  took  it. 
You  remembered  me  and  the  old  life  in  which  you 
had  thought  you  loved  me,  with  loathing  then. 
I  could  almost  hear  you  abjure  that  pitiful  past. 
You  looked  quite  different  after  that,  and  you 
were  always  with  Mr.  Wilton.  You  looked  a 
Pharisee  then,  Jack." 

John's  head  sank  a  little,  but  he  made  no 
answer. 

"  I  watched  you  riding  and  boating,"  she  con 
tinued,  "always  alone,  and  always  with  the  look 
that  I  am  sure  the  Prodigal  Son  had  when,  hav 
ing  left  the  swine  and  the  harlots,  he  was  com 
fortably  reinstated.  But  your  old  face  had  been 
honester  and  truer,  Jack,  even  when  you  tried  to 
murder  Manuel  Planco.  Of  course  you  were 
right,  I  knew  that — right  to  live  a  higher,  better 
life,  even  if  built  on  the  foundations  of  a  broken 
faith.  It  was  only  a  faith,  you  know ;  there  was 
no  promise.  But  you  did  not  trust  me  enough  to 
tell  me.  I  watched  you  for  three  years.  Your 
cousin  came  home  from  the  Convent.  She  was 
beautiful,  and  I  saw  you  with  her  constantly. 
You  used  to  ride  with  her  to  a  certain  bluff — 
there  was  a  view  there — and  hidden  in  the  cha- 


374  JOHN  PAGET. 

parral,  I  heard  you  trying  to  train  that  simple 
child.  I  laughed,  for  I  knew  that  you  would 
never  win  her  in  that  way.  You  loved  her;  but 
you  did  not  know  it.  I  used  to  see  you  reason 
ing  with  yourself.  You  sitting  inside  with  a 
book,  and  close  under  the  lamp,  as  if  you  studied  ; 
I  outside  in  the  darkness,  watching  through  the 
open  window.  I  used  to  read  your  very  soul,  for 
it  all  shone  out  when  you  thought  you  were 
alone.  '  I  have  made  Elizabeth  no  promise/  you 
would  say,  '  it  would  be  impossible  to  marry  her ; 
all  would  think  me  a  fool.  We  are  worlds  apart, 
and  she  would  not  let  her  people  go.  I  cannot 
fall  so  low  again.  Her  people  are  debauched  ; 
and  her  own  past — who  can  vouch  for  that  ?  I 
have  sinned  ;  I  have  been  low  and  debauched 
myself;  I  must  turn  and  repent;  God  will  for 
give  me.'  You  were  in  earnest,  Jack,  for  your 
nature  is  essentially  true  ;  and  you  suffered.  It 
was  the  strength  of  the  reaction  that  made  you 
loathe  me.  I  was  there  when  you  were  ordained 
deacon,  and  I  thought  how  much  that  white  robe 
covered.  I  laughed  to  think  of  the  one  doctrine 
of  which  you  had  convinced  me.  We  used  to 
have  theological  discussions  sometimes,  do  you 
remember?  and  because  of  my  father  and  his 
sins  I  had  let  go  what  I  had  learned  of  eternal 
punishment.  You  used  to  argue  with  me  on  this 
point.  After  that  you  put  me  in  hell.  That  was 
your  first  doctrinal  teaching. 

"  Mr.  Wilton   died.     That   was  a  grief  to  me. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  375 

I  went  in  at  the  study  window  and  saw  him  dead. 
His  face  spoke  to  me,  and  I  promised  to  live  as 
he  would  have  me  live.  God  keep  him  !  I  kept 
that  vigil  with  you  the  night  that  he  lay  in  his 
coffin.  I  was  close  to  you  in  the  shadow  ;  if  you 
had  loved  me,  you  would  have  felt  my  presence. 

"  You  and  your  cousin  came  away  with  a  beau 
tiful  woman.  I  saw  her — I  saw  her  at  the  funeral, 
and  again  the  day  you  left.  I  was  at  the  station 
the  day  you  came  away  ;  I  was  dressed  as  a  boy, 
and  stood  quite  close  to  you.  You  gave  me  a 
half-dollar  for  putting  your  things  in  the  train. 
As  the  train  moved  I  said,  '  Good-by,  Jack."  You 
turned  your  head,  and  your  face  went  quite  white. 
You  thought  it  was  a  ghost. 

"I  wanted  to  follow  you  and  watch  how  the 
rich,  luxurious  world  would  lay  hold  on  you — 
watch  how  you  would  strive  to  make  that  child 
love  you.  I  knew  she  never  would.  I  could  not 
go,  for  I  could  not  leave  my  father.  He  had  got 
shot  in  a  mail  robbery,  and  was  crippled  for  life. 
He  is  dead  now.  Of  my  two  half-brothers,  George 
is  dead  ;  Jim  disappeared  in  Mexico.  My  step 
mother  and  Manuel  took  the  place.  Have  I  told 
your  share  truly  ?  "  looking  at  John  for  the  first 
time. 

John's  eyes  met  hers,  and  he  laid  his  hand  on 
hers.  "  It  is  all  true,"  he  said  ;  "  I  was  a  Phar 
isee.  Now  I  will  finish  the  story.  I  loved  my 
cousin  ;  but,  as  you  say,  I  did  not  realize  it  ;  not 
until  I  realized  that  my  brother  loved  her. 


376  JOHN  PA  GET. 

Women  call  Claude  beautiful,  and  he  is  ;  and  the 
child  became  fond  of  him  at  once  ;  he  was  kind 
and  gentle  to  her,  and  did  not  try  to  train  her. 
At  the  moment  that  I  realized  my  love  for  Bea 
trice,  you  stood  before  me,  and  looked  straight 
into  my  eyes.  I  could  not  even  try  to  win  the 
girl.  Day  after  day  I  realized  more  and  more 
what  I  had  made  you  suffer  ;  realized  the  wrong 
I  had  done  you,  and  loathed  myself.  There  is 
no  pain  in  life,  Elizabeth,  like  the  loss  of  self- 
respect.  I  lived  in  misery,  trying  to  help  my  fel 
lows.  One  day  a  dying  girl,  a  pauper,  said  to 
me  ;  '  My  death  has  been  caused  by  falseness  and 
desertion  ;  I  hated  all  humanity  until  you  showed 
me  what  a  true  man  could  be.  God  will  bless 
you  for  it.'  And  I  so  false  !  So  I  came  away  to 
hunt  for  you — "  Elizabeth  laid  her  hand  on  Wam- 
ba's  head — "  you  who  had  let  me  go  without 
one  reproach — whose  unselfishness  has  made  me 
selfish — whose  gentleness  had  let  me  be  cruel." 

"  And  in  the  eagerness  of  your  quest  you  stop 
by  the  roadside  to  play  with  Death?  " 

"  Elizabeth  !  " 

"  It  is  true,  Jack,  and  you  know  it  ;  but  you 
are  honest  in  it  all — brutally  honest.  Let  me 
read  you  to  yourself  once  more  ?  Your  cousin  is 
debarred  you  forever;  you  are  too  true  to  preach 
truth,  having  been  false,  without  attempting  res 
titution  ;  you  know  at  last  what  you  made  me 
suffer,  and  you  think  I  am  suffering  still.  Love 
has  clear  eyes  to  read,  Jack,  and,  loving  you,  I 


JOHN  FACET.  377 

read  you.  Remember,  I  love  you  ;  whatever  I 
may  say,  I  love  you  ;  so  it  seems  to  me  that  in 
my  turn  I  can  be  brutally  honest,  and  with  a  bet 
ter  grace  than  you.  Having  argued  it  all  out 
with  yourself,  you  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  nearest  thing  to  happiness  that  you  can  at 
tain  is  the  restoration  of  your  self-respect.  You 
must  seek  me,  restore  to  me  my  faith  in  human 
ity,  my  self-respect,  soothe  my  broken  heart, 
and  convince  yourself  of  your  own  sincerity  by 
sacrificing  your  life  to  me.  You  set  out  on  your 
quest  honestly  determined  to  carry  it  out  to  the 
bitter  end.  Still,  you  counted  two  chances.  I 
might  have  died,  or  in  this  epidemic  death  might 
find  you.  If  you  lived,  you  would  seek  me ;  if  ! 
you  died,  a  death  died  for  others  must  be  suf 
ficient  atonement.  But  you  did  not  want  to  find 
me ;  I  saw  that  in  your  face  the  other  night. 
Still,  I  count  what  you  have  done  as  more  than 
sufficient  atonement,  for  not  one  man  in  a  thou 
sand  would  ever  have  remembered  a  woman  in 
Elizabeth  Marsden's  position.  And  you  made 
me  no  promise." 

"  No,  but  I  won  your  love  deliberately  and 
intentionally ;  I  took  it  all ;  I  took  your  life, 
then  dropped  it  in  the  roadside  dust  because  I 
had  become  so  good,  and  had  such  high  and  holy 
work  to  do  !  " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment ;  then  Eliz 
abeth  said :  "  It  was  a  natural  reaction.  If  I 
had  been  as  true  to  you  as  I  should  have  been,  J 


37  8  JOHN  PA  GET. 

would  have  sent  you  away  before.  But  my  life 
was  so  empty  !  Nor  does  that  past  seem  sin  to 
me.  By  keeping  true  to  it,  it  is  true  and  pure  to 
me  still.  And  my  life  is  not  so  spoiled  but  that 
the  Crucified  will  use  it.  There  are  plenty  of 
people  down  in  the  mire  who  will  not  mind  if  a 
little  mud  be  on  the  stepping  stone  that  helps 
them  on  to  higher  ground.  You  have  done  all 
you  can  ;  you  have  found  me,  and  would  offer 
me  your  name  and  protection  ;  a  man  can  do  no 
more.  It  is  I  who  have  refused  restitution — have 
refused  to  be  the  altar  on  which  you  sacrifice 
your  life.  And  in  refusing,  I  give  you  back  that 
life,  and  free  you  of  that  past  forever."  She 
rose  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "  May  we 
meet  and  work  together  many  times  as  friends, 
and  whenever  my  love  or  my  life  can  help  you  in 
your  work  for  the  Master,  remember  that  they 
are  yours.  Good-by." 

John  laid  his  brow  on  her  hand  for  a  moment, 
then  she  turned  and  went  away. 


XXVII. 

"  Hast  thou  not  sung  ?  and  is  not  song  enough  ? 
Hast  thou  not  loved  ?  and  is  not  loving  all  ? 
Art  thou  not  weary  of  the  wayfare  rough, 
Or  is  there  aught  in  life  thou  wouldst  recall  ? 

Ah,  no!  ah,  no! 
The  life  came  sweetly — sweetly  let  it  go! " 

IN  the  dusk  one  evening  Elizabeth  went  to  the 
train  to  get  a  package  of  clothing  that  had 
been  sent  for  the  little  children.  Waiting  at  the 
door  of  the  office  until  the  one  overworked  man 
could  serve  her,  she  felt  her  cloak  pulled  gently, 
and  turned  to  find  a  nun  at  her  elbow.  Some 
thing  in  the  face  made  her  feel  faint,  as  if  an  old 
wound  had  been  opened  afresh  and  her  life  were 
ebbing  away.  Then  swiftly  it  came  to  her  who 
this  nun  was.  That  beautiful  face  was  painted 
in  lines  of  fire  on  her  heart ;  and  now  how  came 
she  here  looking  so  pale  and  worn  ? 

"  Will  you  help  me  to  lodgings  for  the  night  ?  " 
the  nun  asked. 

"  Yes,"  Elizabeth  answered,  "  you  may  come 
with  me,"  and  taking  the  bundle  the  man 
handed  her,  she  led  the  way  out  of  the  station. 

Presently  she  slackened  her  pace. 

"  I  go  too  fast  for  you,"  she  said. 

"No,  I  like  to  walk  fast." 


3^0  JOHN  FACET. 

"  Then  your  bag  is  too  heavy  ;  here "  And 

giving  to  Wamba  the  bundle  she  carried,  Eliza 
beth  took  the  nun's  bag. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  quite  able." 

"  No,  you  are  not,  and  Wamba  likes  to  be  use 
ful.  You  are  too  delicate  for  this  sort  of  work." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that !  I  can  fan  sick  people 
at  least,  and  in  the  papers  I  read  of  the  little 
children  left  desolate.  I  can  mind  them." 

"  Yes,"  Elizabeth  answered,  "  you  can  do  that. 
But  who  let  you  come  to  this  death-hole?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  the  little 
nun  looked  up  wistfully. 

"  I  ran  away,"  she  said. 

"  Is  there  anyone  here  whom  you  know  ? " 
Elizabeth  went  on,  "  whom  you  have  come  to 
join  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  That  is,  there  is  someone  here 
I  know,  my  cousin  ;  but  I  would  not  have  him 
see  me  for  the  world !  " 

"  What  is  he  here  for  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  clergyman  ;  he  has  come  to  help — to 
give  his  life.  He  is  so  good  ;  so  wonderfully  good 
and  strong;  so  far  above  me  that  he  would  de 
spise  me  if  he  could  know  how  deeply  I  have 
sinned." 

"  Sinned,  child  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sinned."  Then  laying  her  hand  on 
Elizabeth's  arm  :  "  You  look  a  sort  of  Sister  your 
self  ;  you  look  so  kind  and  strong  ;  I  will  tell  you 
all  my  story  if  you  will  help  me  ?  " 


JOHN  PA  GET.  3Sl 

"  I  will,"  Elizabeth  answered,  and  turning  into 
a  new  street  where  the  houses  stood  far  apart 
with  dismal  empty  lots  between,  she  went  up  the 
steps  and  opened  the  door  of  one  that  seemed 
never  to  have  been  opened  until  now. 

As  they  entered  they  heard  children's  voices, 
and  cries  of  "Elizabeth — Elizabeth!"  Then 
down  the  narrow,  barren  hall  where  the  walls 
were  of  a  new  and  ghastly  whiteness,  and  the 
floor  still  stained  with  lime,  came  pattering  feet. 
Seven  little  children  in  all,  watched  over  during 
Elizabeth's  absences  by  the  eldest  of  them,  a 
child  of  ten  with  the  expression  of  a  woman  of 
fifty.  They  all  crowded  round  Elizabeth  now — 
all  save  one  that  was  too  young  to  walk,  but  was 
creeping  with  all  its  little  strength  to  meet 
her. 

She  put  down  the  bag  and  lifted  the  child  from 
the  floor,  and  as  the  little  arms  stole  round  her 
neck,  and  the  little  head  nestled  close  to  hers, 
a  light  like  sunshine  came  over  her  face.  The 
other  children  retreated  behind  Wamba — who, 
having  put  down  his  bundle,  licked  their  faces 
with  indiscriminate  patronage — looked  with  some 
awe  at  Elizabeth's  companion,  and  took  her  out 
stretched  hand  very  carefully. 

"  She  has  come  to  take  care  of  you,"  Elizabeth 
said — "  ask  her  what  you  must  call  her  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Beatrice,"  the  little  nun  said, 
"but  you  must  call  me  Sister." 

"  Say  it,"  Elizabeth  ordered,  "  say  '  Sister,' ' 


382  JOHN  PA  GET. 

"  Sister !  "  came  in  chorus,  and  the  less  timid 
ones  left  the  shelter  of  Wamba's  broad  back,  and 
began  a  closer  examination  of  the  newcomer. 

"  If  you  will  take  off  your  cloak  and  hood," 
Elizabeth  said  as  she  removed  her  own,  "  they 
will  be  more  friendly."  Then  as  Beatrice  obeyed, 
taking  off  her  cap  as  well,  Elizabeth  smiled  scorn 
fully  at  herself,  because  the  girl's  beauty  struck 
her  heart  to  pain. 

Had  she  been  such  a  fool  as  to  let  her  heart 
stir? 

After  this,  Elizabeth,  with  the  child  still  on  her 
arm,  busied  herself  about  supper.  Bread  and 
milk  was  all,  but  that  was  as  much  as  a  feast 
would  have  been  at  any  other  place  or  time  ;  for 
the  milk  alone  was  "  above  rubies."  For  herself 
and  Beatrice  there  was  hot  tea  in  addition,  and 
for  Wamba  a  bone  saved  from  dinner.  Elizabeth 
patted  him  gently  ;  he  was  growing  very  gaunt. 

Beatrice  helped  to  put  the  little  ones  to  bed, 
and  when  all  were  safe,  save  the  child  that  was 
asleep  in  Elizabeth's  arms,  Elizabeth  said  to 
Beatrice,  "  Will  you  tell  me  your  story  now,  or 
to-morrow  ?  I  have  until  eleven  o'clock  to  rest ; 
after  that  I  shall  be  gone  for  the  nigh't." 

"  I  will  tell  you  now,"  Beatrice  answered,  "  but 
may  I  not  put  that  child  down  for  you  ?  He  will 
tire  you." 

"  No;  it  rests  me  to  hold  him,  I  think.  He  is 
the  first  one  that  came  to  me,  and  I  believe  I  love 
him.  I  shall  have  to  send  him  away  before  long, 


JOHN  PA  GET.  383 

when  the  fever  is  done,  to  his  grandmother. 
Meanwhile  I  am  a  little  foolish  about  him.  But 
suppose  you  put  some  of  those  blocks  on  the  fire 
before  we  begin.  It  is  healthy  to  have  a  little 
fire,  you  know ;  besides  it  is  cheerful." 

If  a  fire  could  be  dismal,  that  little  fire  was. 
It  was  made  of  bits  of  laths  and  boards  left  from 
the  building  of  the  house,  and  built  on  the  hearth 
where  as  yet  there  was  no  grate. 

Beatrice  went  to  work  carefully,  not  being  an 
adept,  and  Wamba,  watching,  signified  his  ap 
proval  when  she  was  done  by  stretching  himself 
before  the  blaze. 

Then,  without  moving  from  where  she  knelt, 
Beatrice  began. 

She  told  of  her  childhood  at  the  Convent,  and 
of  the  Mother,  with  a  lingering  love  as  if  she  did 
not  wish  to  leave  that  peaceful  time — then  her 
life  at  home,  her  father's  death,  and  the  removal 
to  New  York. 

She  told  it  very  simply,  as  a  child  might,  and 
Elizabeth  saw  that  the  thought  of  John,  except  as 
a  brother,  had  not  entered  the  girl's  mind  up  to 
this  point.  Over  the  life  in  New  York,  however, 
she  hesitated  a  little,  while  Elizabeth  watched 
every  shade  of  expression,  and  listened  to  every 
doubtful  tone. 

Was  John  coming  in  now  ;  was  she  going  to 
hear  now,  how,  that,  deceiving  everyone,  even 
John  himself,  the  girl  yet  loved  him  enough  to 
follow  him  to  death  ?. 


3&4  JOHN  FACET. 

But  presently  like  a  pent-up  flame  the  truth 
burst  forth.  "  Claude  !  oh,  I  loved  him  so  !  "  and 
there  was  a  catch  in  her  voice  like  a  sob.  "  Oh, 
yes ;  I  loved  him  more  than  life — more  than  God  ! 
That  was  my  sin.  I  told  you  I  had  sinned  ;  but 
I  did  not  realize  it.  Life  was  like  a  dream  then, 
such  a  beautiful  dream.  Have  you  ever  loved 
anyone,  Elizabeth  ?  Loved  him — loved  enough 
to  sin  ?  You  look  too  strong.  I  beg  your  par 
don,  it  was  a  wrong  question — almost  an  insult. 
But  I  am  so  weak,  you  see.  Then  Claude  went 
away  for  a  few  days,  and  while  he  was  gone  my 
governess  told  me  dreadful  things  about  him. 
She  said  he  was  an  infidel ;  that  it  was  sin  for  me 
to  love  him  ;  that  I  must  nail  my  love  to  the 
Cross,  and  leave  Claude. 

"  I  was  so  wicked,  Elizabeth,  that  I  tried  to 
persuade  myself  that  Miss  Grigsby  had  told  lies; 
then  I  hoped  that  she  was  crazy.  Do  you  think 
God  will  forgive  me  ?  Then  I  wrote  to  the 
Mother,  and  I  wrote  to  John  and  begged  him  to 
come  and  help  me." 

Elizabeth's  eyes  had  a  far-away  look  in  them, 
and  she  drew  the  sleeping  child  close  to  her 
breast. 

"  And  did  John  come  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  for  a  long  time.  I  asked  him  to  come  in 
my  joy,  and  I  asked  him  to  come  in  my  sorrow, 
and  he  did  not  come  either  time.  He  was  ab 
sorbed  in  his  work,  you  see,  and  my  joys  and  sor 
rows  could  not  seem  much  to  him." 


JOHN  FACET.  38$ 

Elizabeth  sighed.  "  But  of  course  he  loved 
you  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  thought  me  rather  weak  and  fool 
ish  ;  and  Claude  said  that  my  affection  would 
annoy  him.  When  Claude  came  back,"  she  went 
on,  "  there  seemed  to  be  a  mist  between  us.  We 
had  an  explanation,  and  he  said  that  he  would  try 
to  think  as  I  did ;  but  still  the  mist  was  there. 
At  last  John  came.  O  Elizabeth,  John  is  so 
high  !  He  is  so  strong,  so  noble  ;  he  seemed  so 
far  away  from  me  always,  and  he  dwarfs  everyone 
who  comes  near  him.  He  did  not  tell  me  ;  I  found 
out  that  he  was  coming  to  this  dreadful  place  to 
work,  to  suffer,  perhaps  to  die  for  the  love  of  his 
fellows.  And  we  were  going  to  the  Adirondacks 
for  love  of  ourselves.  All  the  time  I  seemed  to 
see  the  face  of  the  Christ  on  the  Cross,  and  to 
hear  him  say  '  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know 
not  what  they  do  !  '  Claude,  who  does  not  be 
lieve  in  Him,  did  not  know  ;  and  all  who  were 
going  in  search  of  pleasure  did  not  care.  Only 
John  was  going  to  pain  and  death  for  Christ's  sake. 
But  /  knew,  and  the  Christ  would  not  ask  forgive 
ness  for  me  if  I  did  not  care ;  if  I  stayed  willfully 
for  love  of  one  who  was  Christ's  enemy.  Know 
ing  all  this,  I  longed  to  stay  ;  I  tried  to  stay  ;  and 
hated  Miss  Grigsby  for  telling  me,  and  John  for 
coming  away.  You  see  how  wicked  I  was  ;  how 
I  sinned,  Elizabeth  !  " 

Elizabeth  stooped  and  kissed  her  brow.  "  But 
you  came  away,"  she  said. 


3^6  JOHN  PAGET. 

"Not  of  my  own  will.  John  came,  and  I  took 
his  departure  as  quietly  as  a  brute  ;  then,  after  he 
left,  I  got  a  letter  from  the  Mother.  She  said  I 
was  committing  the  sin  of  Judas,  and  betraying 
the  Master  afresh ;  that  I  must  leave  all,  and 
come  to  her  at  the  Convent.  As  I  read,  I  faced 
my  sin  fully.  I  had  known  it  all  along,  but  had 
turned  my  back  on  it.  In  my  heart  I  had  been 
more  false  than  Judas,  and  I  knew  that  I  must 
try  to  atone.  So  I  came  here.  God  knows  how 
my  life  is  bound  up  in  Claude,  and  maybe  God 
will  forgive  me,  now  that  I  have  come  away  to 
this  awful  place  to  show  my  willingness  to  follow 
Him.  In  my  letter  that  I  left  for  Claude,  I  did 
not  tell  him  once  that  I  loved  him.  I  wrote  a 
cold,  calm  letter,  and  told  him  I  was  coming  here 
to  help.  It  was  very  hard,  for  I  knew  that  it 
would  hurt  him.  So  often  he  asked :  '  Do  you 
love  me  better  than  John  ?  '  Now  he  will  think 
that  I  love  John  best.  It  was  the  hardest  thing 
I  could  think  of  to  do,  for  it  hurt  Claude,  and 
made  him  think  ill  of  me,  too.  You  think  God 
will  forgive  me  now,  Elizabeth?" 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  it,  child,  even  without 
your  coming  here  to  die.  Will  you  not  tell 
John?" 

"  Oh,  never — never  !  I  must  not  tell  John,  for 
that  would  make  it  easier  for  me.  Besides,  I 
promised  Claude  that  John  should  not  know 
that  I  was  here  ;  I  wrote  him  that  in  my  letter; 
but  I  did  not  say  that  I  did  not  love  John  best. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  387 

He  will  think  that  I  would  rather  die  for  John 
than  live  for  him.  If  I  live,  I  will  go  on  to  the 
Mother.  If  I  die,  Elizabeth,  I  will  leave  a  letter 
for  you  to  send  to  Claude,  and  this  last  farewell 
will  tell  him  how  I  loved  him  all  the  while.  When 
I  am  dead  there  will  be  no  harm  in  comforting 
him.  And  you  can  tell  John  why  I  came,  and 
tell  him  to  pray  for  my  soul." 

"  I  think  your  cousin  ought  to  know  of  your 
being  here  at  once,"  Elizabeth  said.  "  I  know 
him,  and  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  him." 

Beatrice  sprang  up.  "You  promised  you 
would  not." 

"  I  promised  I  would  help  you,"  Elizabeth 
answered.  "  If  you  should  die,  he  could  hold  me 
to  account." 

"And  you  are  afraid  of  a  little  responsibil 
ity?" 

Elizabeth  smiled.  "  No,  I'm  not  afraid,  but  it 
would  not  be  right.  Do  you  not  see  that  you 
are  almost  committing  suicide  ?  You  ought  to 
be  sent  away  from  this  place  ;  and  your  cousin 
would  do  it." 

Beatrice  stood  looking  down  into  the  fire. 

"  Where  could  I  go  ?  "  she  asked  at  last.  "  Who 
would  receive  me  now?" 

"There  are  stations  outside  where  you  could 
be  taken  care  of  until  it  would  be  safe  for  you  to 
go  on." 

"And  if  I  die  there?" 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  die." 


JOHN  PA  GET. 

"Yes,  my  heart  is  broken.  I  feel  life  going 
from  me  every  hour." 

Elizabeth  looked  up  quickly,  and  once  more 
was  struck  with  the  frail,  worn  appearance  of  the 
girl. 

"  My  mother  died  of  nothing,"  Beatrice  went 
on,  "and  so  will  I;  old  Angela  told  me  so." 
Once  more  she  knelt  by  Elizabeth.  "  I  am  safer 
with  you  than  anywhere  else,"  she  said  ;  "  why  not 
leave  me  in  peace  ?  Already  I  love  you  and  the 
little  children.  If  you  insist  on  telling  John,  I 
must  go  away  and  hide  even  from  you." 

"  I  do  not  insist,"  Elizabeth  answered,  "  but  I 
must  think  about  it  before  I  can  make  you  any 
promise.  Now  I  must  sleep,  and  you  must,  too. 
See,  it  is  eight  o'clock  ;  by  eleven  I  must  be  gone. 
Sleep  quietly  for  to-night,  and  I  will  tell  you  my 
decision  in  the  morning." 

She  showed  the  girl  a  bed  in  the  next  room, 
and  Beatrice  took  her  bag  and  her  wraps  from 
where  they  hung,  and  carried  them  with  her. 

Presently  she  came  back  half  undressed,  and 
with  a  pair  of  scissors  in  her  hand. 

"  Will  you  cut  off  my  hair?"  she  asked  ;  "  it  is 
so  hard  to  get  under  my  cap." 

Elizabeth  looked  at  her  a  moment.  "  No," 
she  said,  "  I  will  plait  it  very  tight  for  you  in 
stead." 

Beatrice  sighed.  "  Nobody  believes  that  I  am 
dead  to  my  past ! "  But  this  was  all  her  protest, 
and  she  sat  quite  still  while  Elizabeth  brushed 


JOHN  PA  GET.  389 

and   braided  her  hair.     When   it  was  done,  she 
took  Elizabeth's  hand. 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  Elizabeth, 
and  I  thank  you  very  much.  Would  you  mind 
kissing  me  for  good-night?" 

And  Elizabeth  kissed  her.  "  Sleep  well,"  she 
said  ;  "you  need  it  sadly." 

But  when  Elizabeth  looked  in  at  eleven 
o'clockj  the  room  was  empty.  While  she  slept 
the  heavy  sleep  of  exhaustion,  the  girl  had 
gone.  On  the  table  there  was  a  letter  sealed  and 
stamped,  addressed  to  Claude  Van  Kuyster,  and 
a  note  to  Elizabeth  begging  her  to  mail  this  let 
ter  when  the  fever  was  done.  "  It  will  not  make 
any  difference  then  for  him  to  know  how  much  I 
loved  him,  for  I  shall  be  dead,  or  in  the  Convent. 
You  will  not  see  me  again,  nor  will  John.  Good- 
by.  God  bless  you." 

Putting  the  note  and  letter  away,  Elizabeth 
hurried  out.  She  must  find  John  at  once.  At 
the  bread  depot  she  found  several  calls  awaiting 
her,  but  could  get  no  news  of  John.  Mr.  Paget 
had  not  been  in  for  twenty-four  hours,  and  no 
one  could  say  where  he  was. 

Elizabeth  left  a  note  for  him  with  several  ad 
dresses  where  he  might  find  her,  her  own  first, 
and  begged  him  to  come  to  her  at  once.  She 
then  went  on  to  her  night's  work — a  family  of 
four,  all  ill,  and  two  dying.  In  the  morning  she 
went  again  to  the  supply  office,  and  from  there 
to  John's  lodgings  ;  but  he  had  not  been  in  the 


39°  JOHN  PA  GET. 

office  since  the  morning  before,  and  his  lodgings 
were  locked  tight.  Her  only  resource  was  to 
slip  a  little  twisted  note  into  the  keyhole. 

She  did  not  wish  to  institute  any  systematic 
search  for  Beatrice,  even  if  it  were  feasible,  but 
she  looked  for  her  herself ;  asking  for  her  at  the 
houses  of  both  Protestant  and  Roman  Catholic 
Sisters,  without  success.  The  girl  seemed  to 
have  vanished. 

It  was  useless  to  regret  that  she  had  told  Bea 
trice  her  intentions,  for  she  would  in  no  case 
have  acted  without  Beatrice's  knowledge  ;  and 
she  could  not  blame  herself  for  the  girl's  rash 
ness  ;  but  she  was  deeply  troubled.  She  might 
be  in  some  empty  house — there  were  many 
such,  emptied  by  fever — where  it  would  be  cer 
tain  death.  She  might  be  working  beyond  her 
frail  strength ;  she  might  fall  into  other  serious 
dangers,  she  was  so  beautiful  and  simple. 

At  her  own  lodgings  that  evening  the  chil 
dren  gave  her  a  note,  and  said  the  Sister  had  left 
it.  It  was  only  a  line — "  I  am  safe." 

Again  Elizabeth  went  out  on  her  night  rounds. 
She  had  done  her  best  by  the  girl,  and  until  she 
could  see  John,  she  could  do  no  more. 

Toward  dawn  her  charge  for  that  night  died, 
and  she  was  taking  her  way  slowly  homeward, 
when  a  voice  called  her  : 

"  Elizabeth  !  "  By  the  light  of  the  fires  John 
recognized  the  dog  across  the  street,  and  came 
over  to  her.  He  took  both  her  hands. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  39 * 

"  You  want  me,  Elizabeth  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  have 
your  notes  and  have  been  hunting  for  you.  I 
am  so  glad  that  you  want  me." 

The  voice,  the  words,  the  strong  grasp  of  his 
hands,  shook  her  as  no  pleading  could  have  done. 
The  calm  that  had  come  after  years  of  struggle 
was  swept  away,  and  she  trembled  like  a  leaf  in 
the  wind.  Some  words  she  had  read  once  came 
back  to  her — "  There  is  no  love  so  tender  as  an 
old  love  renewed." 

"What  is  it?"  John  asked,  looking  down  into 
her  eyes. 

She  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  am  so  tired,"  she 
said,  "that  I  believe  my  mind  is  leaving  me." 

"  Please  take  care  of  yourself,  Elizabeth  ;  you 
are  one  of  the  people  we  cannot  spare  from  this 
world." 

"Hush!"  she  answered  quickly,  "I  do  not 
matter ;  but  there  is  someone  here  who  needs 
your  care,  and  it  is  for  that  I  sent  for  you  ;  your 
cousin." 

Then  she  stood  alone  in  the  dead  world.  Her 
brain,  her  heart  stopped  ;  even  the  fire  hardened 
into  one  tall  flame  as  she  watched  the  man 
before  her. 

"  You  mean " 

"  Beatrice.  She  has  run  away,  and  is  here 
disguised  as  a  Sister  of  Mercy." 

"  Beatrice  !  "  he  whispered. 

Elizabeth  turned  to  see  if  the  growing  day  had 
yet  risen  over  the  house-tops  to  touch  his  face. 


392  JOHN  FACET. 

"  Beatrice  !  "  he  said  again. 

"I  met  her  at  the  station  by  chance,"  Eliza 
beth  went  on,  smoothing  one  hand  over  the  other 
as  if  to  smooth  away  the  marks  of  the  grasp  in 
which  they  had  been  held.  "  I  took  her  home 
,  with  me.  I  intended  to  keep  her  there  with  the 
children,  but  I  told  her  what  I  thought  you 
ought" — she  stopped  abruptly,  then  after  a  sec 
ond  went  on,  "You  would  send  her  back  to  her 
friends.  When  I  looked  into  her  room  again, 
she  was  gone." 

"  When  was  that  ?  " 

"  Night  before  last — before  this  one." 

"  Nearly  forty-eight  hours  !  What  shall  we 
do — what  must  we  do,  Elizabeth  ?  She  is  so 
young,  so  frail,  so  beautiful!  Can  you  not  help 
me,  Elizabeth  ?  "  laying  his  hands  on  her  shoul 
ders.  "Can  you  not  help  me?  She  will  die! 
And  she  loves  me.  She  would  not  have  come 
else;  would  she,  Elizabeth?" 

"  I  have  hunted  for  her  already,"  Elizabeth 
answered,  turning  her  eyes  away  from  his.  "  We 
must  describe  her  at  the  offices,  and  ask  everyone 
to  keep  a  lookout  for  her.  It  is  all  we  can  do." 

A  step  approached,  and  both  turned.  It  was 
the  young  physician  who  stayed  with  John. 

"  Tell  him,"  John  said. 

So  Elizabeth  described  Beatrice. 

"  I  parted  with  her  an  hour  ago,"  Dr.  Rogers 
answered.  "A  woman  had  died,  and  the  nun, 
Sister  Dolores  she  called  herself,  took  away  the 


JOHN  FACET.  393 

little  child.  She  said  that  she  knew  where  it 
would  be  safe." 

Elizabeth  stretched  out  her  hand  to  John. 

"  She  will  bring  it  to  me,  Jack  ;  come  !  " 

Rogers  watched  them  away  in  silence,  too 
surprised  to  ask  a  question. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  day  that  was  dawn  when 
they  parted,  John  and  Rogers  met  at  their  lodg 
ings. 

"You  did  not  find  Sister  Dolores?"  Rogers 
said. 

"No,  but  she  had  left  the  child  there. 

Rogers  lighted  the  spirit-lamp  and  put  on  the 
little  kettle  ;  he  brought  out  some  bread  and 
cold  meat,  and  from  his  coat  pocket  a  bottle  of 
milk. 

"  I  met  the  Gray  Sister,"  he  said.  "  She  told 
me,  and  gave  me  this  milk." 

John  did  not  seem  to  hear  him. 

"  You  know  the  Gray  Sister,"  Rogers  went 
on. 

"  Elizabeth?  Yes  ;  but  I  have  not  seen  her  in 
nearly  five  years." 

"  She  is  wonderful !  " 

John  turned  and  looked  at  Rogers  curiously. 

"  If  for  nothing  else,  she  would  be  a  wonder 
of  physical  endurance  ;  but  to-day  she  looks 
worn  out ;  quite  as  if  she  might  break  down. 
In  twelve  hours  she  has  changed  dreadfully." 

"She  is  worried  about  Beatrice,"  John  said, 
just  as  if  Rogers  knew  it  all. 


394  JOHN  FACET. 

"  Does  she  love  this  Beatrice  very  much  ?• 

"Elizabeth  love  Beatrice?"  John  repeated 
slowly.  "  No — I  think  not.  No." 

"  Then  I  wish  Beatrice,  with  her  pretty  baby 
face,  had  kept  away  from  here " 

John  rose  quickly. 

"  I  mean  no  offense.  I  know  nothing  of  this 
young  woman  or  her  relations  to  you,"  Rogers 
went  on  ;  "  only  I  adore  the  one  you  call  Eliza 
beth.  She  is  worth  a  stack  of  ordinary  women, 
and  this  young  person  seems  to  have  broken  her 
all  up." 

"  Beatrice — Miss  Wilton  is  my  cousin,"  John 
said,  "  and  I  must  find  her."  He  picked  up  his 
hat. 

"  You  won't  go  until  you  have  had  your  supper, 
however,"  and  Rogers  locked  the  door  and  put 
the  key  in  his  pocket.  "  Pull  yourself  together, 
Paget  ;  remember,  you  will  need  strength.  The 
Gray  Sister  and  I  are  hunting,  too  ;  street  by 
street  we  go  :  and  two  friends  of  mine  are  on 
the  watch.  I  think  that  Father  O'Bryan  knows 
more  than  he  will  tell." 

John's  eyes  were  gleaming.  "  She  was 
educated  in  a  Convent,"  he  said  quickly,  "  and 
if  the  Romanists  get  her "  ^ 

"  Shall  I  offer  to  help  build  Father  O'Bryan's 
new  church  ?  "  Rogers  asked. 

"  To  any  extent." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Rogers 
unlocking  it,  Elizabeth  entered. 


JOHX  PA  GET.  395 

"  Just  in  time  for  supper,"  Rogers  said. 
"  And  you  can  help  me  manage  Paget,  too." 

"  I  came  to  ask  if  you  have  heard  anything," 
Elizabeth  answered.  "  I  have  had  my  supper." 

"  Another  cup  of  tea  will  not  hurt  you  ;  and 
if  you  will  help  us  consume  this  beef,  your  dog 
here,  shall  have  the  bone.  As  a  physician  I  pre 
scribe  this  second  supper;  sit  down  comfortably, 
and  in  twenty-four  hours  we  will  have  Miss 
Wilton  safely  locked  up." 

Elizabeth  obeyed  him,  so  did  John,  and  both 
felt  it  a  good  thing  that  he  rattled  on  cheer 
fully  without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  anything 
he  said.  When  supper  was  over,  Rogers  gave 
John  a  list  of  names. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  any  of  those  people  will 
live  until  morning,"  he  said,  "and  all  want  to 
see  a  clergyman.  I  have  numbered  them  ;  the 
highest  numbers  having  the  longest  chance  of 
life.  At  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  will 
meet  here.  For  you,"  turning  to  Elizabeth,  "  I 
have  three  moderate  cases,  which  please  make 
comfortable  before  you  go  on  to  the  fourth  case, 
which  is  very  bad.  This  fourth  case  will  need 
all  the  time  you  can  spare.  I  will  send  relief  to 
you  at  six  in  the  morning,  however,  and  you  can 
be  here  by  seven.  Of  course  we  will  search  as 
we  go,  and  at  any  moment  we  may  meet  Sister 
Dolores." 

After  this  they  said  good-night  and  went  their 
several  ways. 


396  JOHN  FACET. 

But  morning  found  them  unsuccessful  still,  and 
night  and  morning,  and  yet  another  evening, 
found  them  without  word  or  token. 

The  children  were  all  in  bed  save  the  one 
Elizabeth  loved  most,  and  he  lay  asleep  in  her 
arms  where  she  sat  by  the  little  fire.  It  seemed 
a  month  since  Beatrice  had  knelt  there  telling 
her  story ;  such  a  pitiful,  innocent  story  as  it 
was.  She  would  have  been  wiser  to  grant  the 
girl's  prayer  not  to  tell  John,  but  she  could  not 
have  foreseen  the  sequel.  Her  own  sympathies 
were  all  with  Claude  ;  his  case  seemed  so  hard. 

That  morning  she  had  mailed  the  letter  to  him 
which  Beatrice  had  left,  inclosed  in  a  note  from 
herself,  telling  him  the  story  of  Beatrice's  meeting 
with  her,  and  the  reason  why  she  had  again  run 
away.  She  finished  with  a  promise  to  telegraph 
him  as  soon  as  Beatrice  was  found.  It  was  all 
she  could  do  for  him,  and  having  done  it,  she 
felt  more  at  rest.  No  one  could  know  better 
than  she  how  much  he  needed  comfort.  John 
was  happy  in  thinking  that  Beatrice  had  come 
for  love  of  him  ;  happy  even  through  the  misery 
of  not  finding  her,  and  Elizabeth  did  not  un 
deceive  him.  She  could  not  help  admiring  the 
faithful  way  in  which  he  did  his  work  in  spite  of 
everything.  He  never  flagged,  but  his  whole 
being  seemed  ever  on  the  alert ;  he  seemed  to 
be  always  looking  and  listening,  and  turned  to 
Elizabeth  for  sympathy  and  help  as  confidently 
as  a  child  would  turn  to  its  mother. 


JOHN  FACET.  397 

"  You  taught  me  to  depend  on  you  long  ago, 
Elizabeth,"  he  said  one  day,  "  and  so  it  seems 
natural  to  come  and  ask  you  to  help  me  bear  my 
burden.  Do  you  think  me  very  weak  ?  " 

"No,"  she  had  answered,  "  men  were  born  to 
strive  and  to  suffer ;  women — to  sympathize. 
At  least  that  is  the  theory  which  men  have 
formulated." 

She  had  done  her  best  to  help  him.  For  her 
self,  she  was  too  tired  to  feel  anything  save  a 
vague  pity  for  all. 

While  she  sat  by  the  fire  thinking  wearily  over 
the  same  course  her  mind  had  followed  for  days, 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  opening  it 
she  found  young  Rogers.  In  the  hunt  for  Bea 
trice  she  had  given  him  her  address  in  case  of 
news. 

"I  have  come  for  you,"  he  said.  "Father 
O'Bryan  is  down.  I  do  not  think  there  is  much 
hope  for  the  old  chap ;  and  as  I  strongly  suspect 
that  he  knows  where  Miss  Wilton  is,  I  want  you 
to  be  with  him.  I  found  him  sick  in  the  street, 
so  carried  him  where  I  pleased." 

Elizabeth  put  the  child  in  his  bed  ;  made  the 
fire  and  the  lights  safe,  then,  buttoning  on  her 
cloak,  followed  the  young  man.  It  was  a  long 
walk,  all  across  the  town,  and  when  they  arrived 
the  priest  was  unconscious. 

"  He  may  come  out  of  this  just  at  the  last," 
Rogers  said  ;  "  watch  by  him." 

So  all  night  long  Elizabeth  watched,  and  to- 


39 8  JOHN  FACET. 

ward  morning  she  was  startled  from  a  doze  by. 
the  voice  of  the  priest. 

"  Tell  Rogers,"  he  whispered,  "  that  the  girl  is 
at  the  Sacred  Heart,  sick.  She  is  always  calling 
for  Cladide.  Is  Rogers'  name  Claude  ?  " 

Elizabeth  raised  him  quickly,  but  there  was 
only  a  gasp — then  he  was  dead. 

It  had  rained  a  little  in  the  night,  and  the 
morning  was  cold  and  damp,  and  Elizabeth 
shivered  as  the  outer  air  struck  her.  The  change 
would  kill  all  the  sick,  she  feared.  She  must  find 
Rogers  and  John,  and  tell  them  at  once  where 
Beatrice  was. 

The  clouds  were  flying  low,  and  the  rising  day 
touched  them  to  exquisite  opal  tints.  Even  in 
her  haste  she  looked  up  more  than  once  to  the 
growing  light  and  beauty,  and  drank  in  gratefully 
the  freshened  air.  It  was  so  sweet  after  the  close 
room  of  death. 

A  sharp  bark  arrested  her,  and  she  turned  to 
see  Wamba,  who  had  been  with  her  the  moment 
before,  standing  on  the  steps  leading  up  to  a  re 
cessed  porch.  She  called  to  him  because  she 
was  in  haste,  but  he  did  not  come.  She  turned 
away,  and  he  whined.  She  turned  back  toward 
the  steps ;  then  Wamba  retreated  into  the  porch, 
still  whining. 

He  had  found  something  ;  a  forsaken  child, 
maybe,  and  she  mounted  the  steps  with  a  little 
curiosity.  But  it  was  not  a  child  ;  a  woman  in 
black  was  lying  there.  Her  feet  and  the  hem 


JOHN  FACET.  399 

of  her  dress  were  wet  with  the  rain  that  had 
driven  in. 

Elizabeth  paused,  overcome  by  an  unaccount 
able  dread.  The  feet  looked  so  dead. 

Wamba  whined  appealingly,  then  broke  into  a 
long,  low  howl.  She  could  not  move  ;  that  cry 
of  unreasoning  misery  seemed  to  have  frozen 
eve-ry  drop  of  blood  in  her  body.  How  long  it 
was  !  how  it  reverberated  in  the  desolation ! 

Again  the  dog  lifted  up  his  head,  and  the  long, 
low  howl — longer  and  lower  it  seemed  this  time 
— crept  through  the  silence. 

A  shudder  passed  over  Elizabeth,  but  she 
could  not  move.  She  heard  a  step  approaching, 
and  struggled  with  herself  as  a  person  in  a  night 
mare. 

"  Somebody  sick  up  there?  " 

It  was  Rogers'  voice,  and  his  step  that  came 
up  quickly.  "  What  is  it?  Your  hands  are  like 
ice;  are  you  ill  ?  Don't  stare  so!"  shaking  her 
slightly. 

"  Thank  you,"  Elizabeth  gasped.  "  See  there, 
it  is  Beatrice,  and  she  is  dead.  I  knew  it  the 

moment  I  saw  the  little  wet  feet "  and  she 

moved  toward  the  prostrate  figure. 

"Good  God  !" 

"Father  O'Bryan  said  that  she  was  ill  at  the 
Sacred  Heart,  crying  for  Claude.  She  must  have 
slipped  away."  She  raised  the  girl  in  her  arms. 
"  How  lovely  she  is — look,"  pushing  back  the 
disguising  veil  and  bands  from  the  brow. 


4°°  JOHN  PA  GET. 

Rogers  stooped  over  them.  "  Is  there  no  sign 
of  life  ?  " 

For  answer,  Elizabeth  lifted  Beatrice's  hand 
and  let  it  fall.  Rogers  drew  back. 

"  Paget  is  just  behind  me,"  he  said,  "  we  were 
going  to  his  lodgings  to  meet  you  for  news.  I 
must  stop  him  and  prepare  him  ;  or  take  her 
away."  . 

"  It  is  too  late,"  Elizabeth  answered,  "  he  is 
here." 

"  Rogers  ? "  and  John  came  quickly  up  the 
steps.  "  Oh,  God  !  "  he  said—"  oh,  God  !  "  and 
Wamba's  howl  seemed  to  finish  the  wail. 

One  moment  he  stood  quite  still;  Elizabeth, 
worn  and  white,  looking  up  at  him,  and  on  her 
breast  Beatrice's  dead  face,  smiling  like  a  child 
in  its  sleep. 

"She  is  mine,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  to 
himself.  "At  last  she  is  mine — mine!  Give  her 
to  me — give  her  to  me.  How  dare  you  keep 
her — touch  her  !  You  ! ^  Mine — mine  !  " — lifting 
his  hands  to  heaven.  "  At  last  she  is  mine  !  " 

He  took  the  girl  from  Elizabeth's  unresisting 
arms,  and  folding  her  close  to  his  breast,  he  laid 
her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  drew  her  cloak  and 
veil  about  her. 

"You  know  she  is  mine,  Elizabeth;  she  came 
because  she  loved  me.  How  dare  you  try  to 
hold  her  from  me?  Mine — mine.  No  one  must 
touch  her  now  ;  go  away  !  " 

"  Paget ! " 


JOHN  PA  GET.  461 

"  Go  away !  Death  has  given  her  into  my 
arms.  Go,  leave  me  with  my  dead.  You  will 
not?  Then  I  will  go.  Do  not  follow — do  not 
follow !  " 

And  as  he  went  away  from  them  Elizabeth, 
still  kneeling  on  the  wet  stones  of  the  porch, 
looked  up  into  Rogers'  face,  while  something 
like  a  smile  crept  round  her  white  lips. 

"  He  loved  me  once,"  she  said,  "and  now  I  go 
to  send  a  message  to  the  man  she  loved." 


XXVIII. 

"  Then  they  left  you   for  their  pleasure  :  till  in  due  time,  one 

by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with  deeds  as 

well  undone, 
Death  stepped  tacitly  and  took  them  where  they  never  see 

the  sun." 

Y  all   that   is   pleasant,  how  came   you  here, 
Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  ?  " 

"  By  ship  and  by  rail,"  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster 
answered,  holding  out  her  hand  to  Ted  Dennis, 
who  leaned  over  the  carriage  door.  It  was  in 
the  Corso  in  Rome,  and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster's 
carriage  was  waiting  for  Marjorie,  who  was  shop 
ping. 

"  Is  Claude  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  is  in  there  with  Marjorie." 

"  You  had  not  planned  this  when  I  left  you  in 
the  Adirondacks  last  autumn,  had  you  ?  " 

"No;  I  think  your  coming  over  made  us 
think  of  it  ;  and  Claude  was  rather  upset  about 
his  cousin,  you  know." 

"Little  Miss  Wilton;  she  still  sticks  to  her 
Convent,  I  suppose?  It  was  hard  on  Claude,  but 
she  would  have  tried  him  dreadfully,  I  think." 

"  Of  course ;  their  training  and  views  of  life  were 
so  different." 

403 


JOHN  PAGET.  403 


"  Her  training  was  very  bad." 
"  Bad  ?     Surely,  Mr.  Dennis- 


"  You  misunderstand  me.  I  only  meant  so 
hopelessly  religious,  don't  you  know." 

"  Yes,  what  you  say  is  true  ;  it  was  hopeless  to 
expect  her  to  adapt  herself  to  our  mode  of  living 
or  thinking.  Life  was  a  very  serious  business  to 
her." 

"  Did  she  have  any  effect  on  Claude  ?  I  mean, 
her  taking  it  so  seriously  as  to  leave  everything 
that  was  pleasant  and  worth  having,  to  go  into  a 
Convent  ?  " 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  paused  a  moment.  "  He 
has  never  talked  to  me  about  her  once — but  he 
says  that  his  children  shall  be  Christians — that, 
if  he  will,  his  brother  shall  train  them." 

"  My  word  !  "  and  Dennis  pulled  his  mustache 
reflectively.  "  His  brother — that  very  striking 
looking  fellow  who  went  down  to  the  fever  ?  Do 
you  know  I  really  thought  for  a  little  while  that 
he  was  wrong  in  his  head — a  fellow  like  him 
throwing  his  life  away  so  utterly.  What  has  be 
come  of  him?" 

"  He  is  quite  well  now,  I  hope.  He  is  on  his 
plantation  in  the  South,  resting.  He  had  a 
dreadful  time  in  the  epidemic,  and  was  desperately 
ill,  but  he  had  a  good  nurse  and  physician,  and  so 
pulled  through.  Claude  actually  wanted  to  go 
down  to  him,  but  both  the  nurse  and  the  physi 
cian  wrote  him  not  to  think^»f  such  a  thing,  that 
he  would  only  do  harm.  I  was  very  thankful 


4°4  JOHN  FACET. 

that  they  had  so  much  common  sense.  The 
physician  ordered  six  months'  rest  for  John,  be 
fore  he  took  any  work.  Claude  sent  his  yacht 
down  for  him,  and  he  has  cruised  about  a  little,  I 
believe.  The  physician  is  with  him,  and  Martin 
Kinsey.  Martin  wrote  me  that  John  was  in 
every  way  the  most  perfect  man  he  had  ever 
known.  His  hair  has  gone  quite  white,  he  says. 
Martin  is  such  an  enthusiast!  " 

"  Yes,  he  is  another  incomprehensible.  I 
always  thought  that  he  and  Miss  Van  Kuyster 
would  make  it  up." 

".Oh,  no!  I  have  quite  other  views  for 
Marjie.  Just  between  us,  remember,  not  a  word 
to  a  living  soul  about  it  !  I  have  always  thought 
that  she  and  Claude  were  made  for  each 
other." 

Dennis  looked  up  quickly.  "  So?  You  give  me 
light.  That  is  what  reconciled  you  so  readily 
to  the  Convent  scheme.  I  wondered,  last  au 
tumn,  at  your  taking  it  so  easily.  You  remem 
ber  I  happened  to  go  down  to  New  York  with 
Claude  just  a  few  days  after  Miss  Wilton  left 
you,  and  you  had  settled  in  the  Adirondacks; 
well,  he  found  a  letter  at  the  Club  that  seemed 
to  tear  him  limb  from  limb,  as  it  were,  and  he 
dragged  me  about  in  a  frantic  way  to  lawyers  and 
things,  to  get  a  little  old  woman  endowed.  She 
was  to  get  a  thousand  dollars  every  Thanksgiving 
Day  from  Beatrice  Wilton.  She  had  been  Miss 
Wilton's  governess ;  I  had  to  witness  the  papers, 


JOHN  FACET.  4°5 

you  know.  It  was  a  horrid  wet  day.  I  made 
him  pay  up,  however,  by  rushing  over  town  with 
me ;  I  was  to  sail  that  afternoon,  you  know — I 
actually  dragged  him  down  to  the  steamer.  But 
honestly" — lowering  his  voice — "he  frightened 
me.  Claude  is  usually  such  a  quiet  fellow,  you 
know,  but  about  three  hours  after  he  got  the 
letter,  we  had  just  finished  lunch  at  the  Club, 
when  a  telegram  was  handed  him.  He  looked  at 
me  a  minute  and  said:  'Would  you  believe  it, 
Dennis,  she  is  dead  !  '  That  was  all  ;  he  would 
not  say  another  word.  He  was  very  quiet,  but 
I  was  afraid  to  leave  him,  so  I  took  him  to  the 
ship,  and  at  the  last  I  turned  him  over  to  Tilly, 
who  promised  to  see  him  safely  back  to  you. 
Tilly  joined  me  two  weeks  later  in  Paris  ;  he  said 
that  you  and  Miss  Van  Kuyster  had  taken  it  very 
quietly,  and  he  supposed  it  only  meant  that  the 
girl  had  taken  the  veil.  He  wondered  a  little, 
but  now  I  understand." 

Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  nodded.  "  Claude  was 
4  hard  hit'  as  you  men  say,  but  he  seems  quite 
right  now,  poor  fellow.  And  soon  it  will  be 
with  him  as  it  is  with  all  of  us;  this — episode — 
will  fade  into  a  lovely  'might  have  been,'  to 
dream  over  when  he  smokes  his  after-dinner 
cigar.  Meanwhile,  Marjie  will  see  that  the  said 
dinner  will  produce  only  dreams,  and  not  night 
mares.  Voyez  ?  " 

"Capital!  Ah,  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Van 
Kuyster,"  lifting  his  hat  and  shaking  hands,  "  and 


4<>6  jOtttf  PA  GET, 

Claude,  my  dear  fellow,  it  is  balm  to  weary  eyes 
to  see  you." 

"  Thanks.     Where  have  you  dropped  from  ?  " 

"  I  have  just  come  back  from  the  East.  Been 
reading  '  Omar  Khayyam  '  under  a  palm  tree  in 
a  garden  of  roses — delicious,  don't  you  know." 

"It  sounds  well.  Jump  in,  we  are  driving  to 
'  the  hill  of  gardens,'  will  you  come  ?  " 

"  I  will  ;  old  friends  are  a  boon.  You  ought  to 
go  to  the  East,  though,  Claude.  Things  are  so 
slow  and  easy  over  there,  every  day  is  a  little 
eternity." 

"  I  believe  time  is  enough  for  me,"  Claude 
answered. 

"  In  this  part  of  the  world,  quite  enough  ;  but 
houris,  hookhas,  palms,  and  roses  make  a  very 
good  perspective  for  eternity." 

"And  yet,  you  have  come  back,"  Marjorie 
said. 

"Well,  a  winter  of  eternities  is  quite  an  addi 
tion  to  a  man's  life,  don't  you  think?" 

"  Quite  " — and  Mrs.  Van  Kuyster  laughed. 

They  stopped  at  the  bank  for  letters.  Claude 
brought  out  a  bundle,  which  he  distributed  as 
they  drove. 

"A  half  dozen  from  your  'dearest  friends,' 
Marjie,"  handing  her  several.  "  Yours,  mother, 
are  from  Jack  and  Kinsey.  Mine  is  from  Miss 
Grigsby ;  thanking  me  for  the  furs,  I  suppose. 
Will  you  read  it  and  answer  it,  Marjie?  "  And  he 
handed  it  to  her. 


JOHN  PA  GET.  4°  7 

He  took  very  little  part  in  the  talk  for  the  rest 
of  the  drive,  and  his  shadowy  eyes  seemed 
deeper,  and  the  lines  in  his  face  more  hopeless  as 
he  looked  out  over  the  magnificent  view  that 
spreads  below  the  watcher  on  the  Pincian  Hill. 

It  was  not  the  fashionable  hour,  and  the  place 
was  still,  save  for  some  children  playing  near, 
and  a  peasant  leaning  against  a  tree  in  the  sun 
shine,  thrumming  on  a  guitar.  He  hummed  in  a 
rich  low  voice  the  gay  fandango  he  played,  with 
its  pathetic  minor  falls  and  broken  chords. 

A  woman  passed  with  a  basket  of  roses  ;  Claude 
bought  them  all.  And  the  roses  and  the  music 
swept  him  away  from  the  immortal  scene  before 
him  to  commonplace  New  York — to  a  con- 
servatery  full  of  forced  flowers.  "  In  a  garden 
they  would  be  nodding,"  he  heard  her  say,  "  here 
they  stand  still  and  dream — like  the  pine  tree 
that  dreamed  of  the  palm.  Does  everything 
dream  and  long,  Claude  ?"  Away  to  a  sullen 
gray  sea,  breaking  against  gray  cliffs — to  trailing 
mist  clouds  and  a  little  wet  cheek  pressed  close 
to  his,  and  a  low  voice  whispering,  "Yes,  you 
have  won  me." 

"  That  guitar  is  dreadfully  twangy,"  Mrs.  Van 
Kuyster  said.  "Drive  on." 

Claude  leaned  out  and  gave  the  musician  a 
gold  piece. 


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